The clinical hum of the master suite at the Armitage estate was a sterile, lonely sound. Outside, the Canadian winter was beginning to bite, frosting the edges of the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, the air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic and secrets.
Arm lay against the pillows, his face still pale, his body adorned with the healing scars of the accident. To the world, to Silas, to Mild, and even to the prying eyes of the press, he was a man adrift—a king whose crown had been knocked off by a traumatic brain injury, leaving him with a mind like a wiped chalkboard.
Dr. Aris, a man who had served the Armitage family for two decades and knew where every skeleton was buried, moved with practiced efficiency. He checked the IV bag, adjusted the heart monitor, and pulled his stethoscope from around his neck. Silas was downstairs, fielding calls from the board, and the security detail was stationed outside the heavy oak doors. They were, for all intents and purposes, alone.
