The morning at the Virjon Manor began with a calculated, rhythmic precision. Julian Sterling arrived at 10:00 AM sharp, his black sports car gliding up the gravel drive like a silent predator. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that cost more than most family sedans, carrying a bouquet of rare, white orchids—a flower that symbolized both refined beauty and a cold, structural strength.
He was met at the door by George Virjon, whose expression was a mask of practiced hospitality, though the twitch in his jaw betrayed a night of little sleep.
"Julian. Prompt as always," George said, leading him into the grand foyer where Miriam stood, adjusted her pearls. "Styler is upstairs. She's been... reflective. I think the gravity of the Sterling name is finally starting to settle in her mind."
