The heavy oak door to my father’s study didn't slam this time. It clicked shut with a soft, final sound that felt infinitely worse than a scream.I stood in the center of the room, my feet sinking into the thick Persian rug. It felt like quicksand, dragging me down, making it impossible to find my balance.My father, Elias, was standing by the massive stone fireplace. His back was to me.He was staring into the dying embers, his shoulders slumped in a way I had never seen before. He looked smaller. Older."Father," I started. My voice was rough. I tried to project confidence, but it came out as a desperate plea. "You have to listen to me. The tape is edited. Sarah changed the audio files. She spliced my voice with Julian’s."Elias didn't turn around. He just shook his head slowly in exhaustion."Do you know how much money I spent on your education, Victor?" he asked quietly. "Do you know how many strings I pulled to keep you out

Sarah moved into the East Wing the next day."I can't leave you alone," she said, carrying a suitcase into the adjoining room. "What if you fall? What if you have a seizure? I need to be close."She was suffocating me. There was no privacy. No moment of peace.She changed the locks on the bathroom door so I couldn't lock it. She installed a baby monitor in my bedroom—a sleek, white plastic eye that stared at me from the dresser."I need to hear you breathing," she said with a sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It comforts me."It was psychological warfare. She was dismantling my mind, piece by piece, stripping away my dignity until I was nothing more than a patient.That evening, she came in with dinner. It was vegetable broth this time."Open wide," she said, holding the spoon. She was sitting on the edge of my bed.It was the same silver spoon with the family crest. My grandfather used this spoon to eat

The lock on my balcony door clicked. I spun around. It was midnight. Sarah was asleep in the other room, having taken a sleeping pill herself to ensure her "beauty rest." The glass door slid open with a soft hiss. A gust of cold wind blew in, carrying the scent of rain. A figure stepped out of the shadows. It was Isabella. She wasn't wearing her usual power suit. She was wearing black tactical gear, tight and functional, like a cat burglar. She moved silently across the room. "You look like hell, Victor," she whispered. "Isabella?" I asked, leaning against the wall for support. My knees felt weak. "How did you get past the guards?" "I own the company that installed the security system," she said, tapping a small device on her wrist. "I have a master key. And I pay your guards better than Elias does." She walked over to me. She looked me up and down,

The summons came at breakfast.A guard I didn't recognize unlocked my door. "Mr. St. Claire requests your presence in the solarium. Immediately."I stood up. I hadn't shaved in four days. My clothes hung loose on my frame. I looked like a scarecrow made of expensive fabric, a ghost haunting my own home.I walked down the hallway. The staff looked away as I passed. The maids busied themselves with dusting; the butler stared resolutely at the floor. They didn't want to make eye contact with the "mad" son.Elias was waiting in the solarium, surrounded by his orchids. The room was humid and smelled of wet earth.He loved orchids because they were beautiful and difficult. Just like he wanted his family to be.Marcus was there, too.He was wearing a white linen suit. He looked fresh, rested, and rich.Sarah stood beside him, her hand lightly touching his arm. The image of the perfect couple, even though she was my wif

I was exiled to the garden.Technically, I hadn't been kicked out, but the hostility in the ballroom was so thick I could choke on it. No one would talk to me. No one would take my donation pledge card. The waiters even walked past me without offering water.So I went outside.The night air was cool. I walked to the stone terrace overlooking the rose garden.I wasn't just sulking. I was hunting.I knew Sarah. I knew that after a "performance" like that, she would need to recharge. She would need to gloat. And she would need alcohol.I knew Marcus. He would want to celebrate his victory before the night was even over.They would come here. This was their spot. The secluded bench behind the high hedges, away from the cameras.I had prepared for this.During my days of confinement in the East Wing, I hadn't just been staring at the wall. I had been tinkering.I reached into my jacket pocket.<