The Fitzgeralt manor was too quiet that afternoon.
It wasn't the peaceful quiet of privacy, but the quiet with a pulse beneath it, as if the house was listening. The automated temperature controls hummed in the background, the faintest mechanical breath against the glass walls of Lucas's office. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, bright and sterile, cutting sharp reflections across the metal trim of the furniture.
His tablet blinked with unread reports, half of them marked urgent. He hadn't touched a single one.
Windstone had already told him everything.
Trevor was gone, called to the Duchess's compound on "official business," which, in Windstone's vocabulary, meant something dangerous enough to be redacted. Benedict had resurfaced, and Christian Velloran was involved.
That last name had made Lucas freeze.
He'd covered it quickly, nodded, thanked Windstone, and even smiled when the butler left. Then the door shut, and the silence came down like static.
