Nolan stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, his silhouette cast in shadow against the afternoon light. Though he tried to focus on the work before him, his eyes kept drifting to his silent phone every few minutes. Leaving Miranda with his family had been the logical decision—Ophelia and Kitty were more than capable of keeping her safe—but the distance gnawed at him nonetheless.
Ben' latest intelligence folder lay open on his desk. He'd already reviewed it twice, finding nothing substantial: no clear threats, no suspicious activity around her family members, no obvious suspects. Yet the uneasiness in his gut persisted.
Who the hell was targeting Miranda? The perpetrator was meticulous—too meticulous.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding.
"Nolan?" Clara appeared in the doorway. "The catering team confirmed they've arrived at the estate to begin preparations for tonight's dinner."
"Thank you," Nolan nodded, studying her face. "How are you feeling today?"
