"Bury him quickly. We have guests coming for dinner."Those were the words Desmond Renfrew said over my father's coffin, and I made myself stand still and not react, because reacting was exactly what he wanted.My father worked for the Renfrew family for thirty years. He cut their grass, carried their bags, opened their gates in the rain, and called every one of them "sir" and "madam" even when they were children half his age. When his heart finally gave out under a box of wine he was carrying to their cellar, they gave him a funeral that lasted less time than their dinner would.I stood at the edge of the small Renfrew family cemetery, in the corner reserved for staff, and watched three gardeners lower my father into the ground while Desmond checked his watch. Isabelle Renfrew stood a little apart from her uncle, arms folded, staring at the coffin with an expression I could not read. Her cousin Vivienne stood beside her, already bored, scrolling through her phone.Nobody cried but me

"Give me the paper."Foster Bell blinked at me like I had spoken a foreign language. I had followed him into the hallway outside the dining room, moving quietly enough that he did not notice me until I was standing between him and the front door."Excuse me?" he said, recovering his composure with the smoothness of a man who negotiated for a living."The paper Desmond gave you," I said. "The one with my name on it."His eyes narrowed slightly, doing the math on how a groundskeeper's son would know to ask that question with such certainty. I let him do the math. It did not matter what conclusion he reached tonight, only that he understood I was not someone to be handled carelessly."I don't discuss client matters with strangers," he said, and stepped around me toward the door.I did not stop him. There was no need. I had already seen enough of his face, his cufflinks, the particular cut of his suit, to have Malik run a full search on him before midnight. Some battles are won by chasing

Isabelle was through the door before I could stop her, and I followed a half step behind, my heart hammering in a way it had not since the day my father collapsed.Edmund Renfrew lay on the floor beside his overturned water pitcher, one hand pressed weakly against his chest, his breathing shallow and uneven. Isabelle dropped to her knees beside him, her composure shattering completely, her hands hovering over her father like she was afraid to touch him and afraid not to."Dad. Dad, look at me, stay with me.""Call the doctor," I said, already moving toward the bedside phone, but Isabelle shook her head, fumbling for her own phone with shaking hands."His doctor said if this happened again, we go straight to the hospital, no waiting for a house call." Her voice cracked. "Corwin, help me get him up."I lifted Edmund carefully, his weight lighter than it should have been for a man his size, the stroke and the years of illness having taken more from him than I realized. He was conscious b

"What did he mean, worth it to you?"Isabelle asked the question the second Marcus's footsteps faded down the hallway, her eyes still fixed on the doorway he had disappeared through, like she expected him to reappear with more evidence, more photographs, more pieces of a puzzle she was only just beginning to realize existed."I don't know," I said, which was not quite a lie, since I genuinely did not know what price Marcus intended to name."You don't know," she repeated, disbelief coloring her voice. "Corwin, that man just showed us a photo of you standing beside one of the wealthiest women in the country, and you're telling me you don't know why he'd think that's worth something?"I said nothing, and my silence told her more than any explanation could have. She stepped closer, searching my face with an intensity that made it difficult to keep my expression steady."Who are you," she asked quietly. "Really.""I'm the man your father promised you to," I said. "That part hasn't changed

"What's this about?"Desmond asked it lightly, setting the flowers down on the side table with hands that were, I noticed, not quite as steady as his voice. Edmund did not answer immediately. He simply held his brother's gaze, the folder still open on the blanket in front of him, and let the silence stretch until it became its own kind of accusation."Explain this," Edmund said finally, turning the folder so the forged authorization faced Desmond directly. "Explain why my signature is on a document I never signed, approving a medication change I never agreed to."Desmond's eyes flicked to the page, and for just a fraction of a second, something raw and unguarded crossed his face before he smoothed it over with the practiced ease of a man who had spent decades learning to control a room."I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. "I never touched your medical paperwork. That's between you and your doctor.""Then explain," Isabelle said coldly, stepping forward, "why the handw