Three days had passed since that voice echoed on the end of the line, but Rovan had not slept more than four hours in a single night.He sat in the dark living room of the flat, a laptop open on his knees. The screen showed the organizational structure he had built himself over the past three days. No logos. No addresses. No names that could be tracked at Companies House or any public registry. Just one phrase printed at the top of the internal document, in sans-serif capital letters:PENDLETON CROWN.In the inner pocket of the uniform hanging on the hook near the door, his phone vibrated. Rovan closed the laptop, walked to the kitchen, and answered the call in a low voice so as not to wake Millie in the next room."Report."The voice on the other end sounded professional. Emotionless. One of the three proxy directors he had recruited through the Aegis Security Group database. A lawyer. His name did not matter. He had never met Rovan. Never would."The holding structure is registered

"Who are you? This kitchen is no place for outsiders."Pierre Dumont stood in front of the main stove with both hands clenched into fists. His white chef uniform was wrinkled at the collar. The bags under his eyes were dark. Behind him, four kitchen staff members stopped slicing, chopping, and stirring—all turning toward the door with the same guarded expression.Rovan stood at the threshold of The Gilded Hearth kitchen. He wore a plain black shirt, dark trousers, and a gray apron he picked up from the rack near the entrance. No name on his chest. No logo. Only one sentence spoken in a flat tone."New management sent me. I am the kitchen consultant."Pierre narrowed his eyes. "New management? Which management? Ashworth is gone. I submitted my resignation three days ago.""I know. And the new management did not accept it.""Who did not accept it?"Rovan stepped inside. His pace was unhurried. His eyes swept the kitchen in a single sweep: two stoves with unstable flames, one frying pan

Marcus Fell did not come with a uniform or a badge. He came with a black suit that was too neat for an ordinary father, and steps that were too measured for someone just picking up his child.Rovan saw him from the end of the first-floor corridor. The man stood in front of the main gate, talking to the security guard on morning duty. His body was upright. His jaw was tight. His eyes swept the school yard in a way regular parents did not—not searching, but assessing. Measuring. Like someone mapping terrain before moving.The security guard turned toward the office, then spoke again. Marcus nodded once and stepped inside. Not toward the classrooms. Not toward the bag drop area. Straight to the corridor leading to the Headmaster's office.Rovan wrung the mop. Dirty water dripped into the bucket. He continued wiping the floor with the same regular motions as every morning. Marcus's footsteps approached. His leather shoes hit the marble with a steady rhythm.When Marcus passed Rovan's posi

At seven in the evening, Millie was already asleep in her room with a bedtime storybook open on her chest.Rovan pulled the blanket up to his daughter's chin, closed the book slowly, and placed it on the side table. Millie's breathing was regular. Her lips were slightly parted. On her left cheek was a blue colored pencil stain that had not yet been wiped off.He closed the bedroom door silently. Walked to the worn-out sofa in the living room. Took a small earpiece from his pants pocket and fitted it into his right ear. In his left hand, his phone was already lit. The screen displayed a live feed from the hidden camera in the kitchen of The Gilded Hearth."Audio check," Rovan whispered.On the other end, Pierre Dumont's voice came through the earpiece. A bit tense, but stable. "I hear you. Everything is ready. The team is in position.""The menu?""Twelve dishes. Four appetizers, four mains, four desserts. According to your directions.""Ingredients?""Fresh. Arrived this morning. I ch

"Dad, the bucket is crooked."George's voice came from the end of the corridor. Rovan stopped walking. He looked down and realized the bucket in his hand was indeed tilted nearly thirty degrees. Dirty water almost spilled onto the marble floor he had just mopped.He straightened the bucket. His fingers shook slightly. "It is fine."George stepped closer. His expression changed when he saw Rovan's face. "You are pale. Did you get enough sleep last night?""Enough.""You do not look like it." George stared at him longer. "You have dark circles under your eyes. Are you sure you do not need a rest?""I am just moping."George opened his mouth, then closed it again. He patted Rovan's shoulder softly. "Alright. But if you need help on the third floor, just say so. I can take over.""No need."George nodded and walked away. Rovan stood in the middle of the corridor for a few seconds. He closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, numbers and reports were still spinning. The King's Cross transaction