(STEVEN- written in 3rd POV)
The dining hall never changed.
Same elongated table of polished dark wood. Same crystal centerpiece catching the chandelier's glow. Same soft footfalls of household staff who moved as though sound itself was a mistake.
Steven arrived ten minutes before schedule.
He always did.
The clock on the far wall ticked with infuriating precision. The seconds echoed. Too loud for such a massive room. Too clinical for a space supposedly meant for family.
He adjusted the cuff of his shirt once. Then again.
He reminded himself:
This isn't a negotiation.
This is honesty.
Voices drifted down the corridor.
Measured heels. The subtle scent of expensive perfume. The crisp note of cologne that had always defined authority.
His mother entered first.
Madame Sy — immaculate as ever — poured perfection into every gesture. Her smile was pleasant, cultivated, elegant. A socialite molded by decades of power and privilege.
