Matteo stepped into the main room, and the air itself seemed to stiffen.
His movements were deliberate, measured, each step a silent declaration.
His shoulders were set, his head held at an imperious angle, but the usual undercurrent of contained warmth was gone.
This was something colder, harder.
Even the guard on duty paused his routine check, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.
He recognized this look. It was the look that preceded storms.
This was not the man coming down for breakfast; this was the strategist heading to war.
The maids had laid the table with their usual precision—silverware gleaming, porcelain arranged just so—but today, the chairs remained empty.
The room felt vast and hollow, the silence a taut wire waiting to snap.
From the shadowed doorway of his room, Victor watched, his laptop closed and forgotten.
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. Perfect.
The pieces were aligning exactly as he had orchestrated.
