The room was designed for comfort. Warm earth tones, a low hum of classical music barely audible, plush seats, and filtered sunlight that spilled across the thick carpet. Everything about it seemed curated to disarm, to lull its occupants into a state of trust.
Mia sat on the armrest of the wide sofa rather than the cushions, her feet tucked up, back straight. Her expression unreadable. Cold eyes studied the space with silent scrutiny, darting from the subtle surveillance mirror to the clock, the bookshelves to the tray of untouched tea and cookies. Five minutes had passed since she had entered, and she had yet to say a word.
Across from her, Samantha sat poised, notepad resting delicately on her knee, legs crossed, hands folded. Everything about her posture was open, graceful, even soothing. She smiled gently, but her gaze was sharp, too sharp. The kind that measured, dissected,and categorized.
"Mia," Samantha began softly, "thank you for coming. I thought today we could talk about anything you'd like. No pressure."
Silence.
Samantha waited exactly seven seconds. Calculated. Non-threatening.
"I find that stories help. Would you like to tell me about a place that made you feel safe?"
Mia blinked once—no shift in posture. No reply.
Samantha shifted her approach. "Sometimes, the first memory that comes to mind tells us what we carry in our hearts. Even if it's small. Like a tree, or a voice, or a sound you heard before falling asleep."
Still, silence.
Samantha nodded to herself, as if confirming a theory. She glanced at her notes, then back at Mia. Her voice took on a more neutral tone, not cold but clinical. "Do you know what dissociation is? It's when the mind protects itself by—"
"You know I do," Mia interrupted suddenly.
The words were icy and calm, like steel slowly unsheathed. Samantha looked up, intrigued but careful.
"You've read the file. My scans. Watched the footage. You're not asking about safe spaces. You want to measure how damaged I am. And what I might know," Mia said coolly.
Samantha smiled faintly, not caught off guard, but acknowledged. "You're very sharp."
"I'm not playing." Mia's tone was now firm, her small frame still unthreatening, but her presence dominant. "I know when someone's pretending to listen but digging. I've seen better liars."
There was a brief pause. Samantha let out a light breath and leaned forward slightly, just enough to seem sincere.
"I won't insult you by pretending I don't have questions. But I am here to help you. Not as a tool. Not to fix you. Just to walk alongside you."
Mia tilted her head. quiet.
Samantha folded her notepad slowly, setting it aside. A subtle signal. She was backing off—but also regrouping.
"I suppose today isn't the day," Samantha said quietly.
"Indeed," Mia replied, standing.
Sebastian, who had been stationed outside the glass-paneled door, opened it just as Mia approached. He gave Samantha a curt nod as Mia swept past him like a cold breeze through the hallway.
The door clicked shut.
Samantha leaned back in her chair, staring at the still-swinging edge of the door. She wasn't frustrated. She was intrigued.
"She's extraordinary. even better than I was at that age," she murmured to herself.
The east wing of the Rowland estate was silent. A suffocating, loaded kind of silence—where words hadn't been spoken, but battles were already being drawn. The walls loomed with portraits of Rowland's past, all watching from their ornate frames. Judging. Waiting.
Ken Rowland stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, unmoving. The dusk light framed him like a shadow forged in steel—shoulders squared, gaze set upon the glittering city below.
He didn't turn as the doors opened.
Rick Rowland entered, slow and sure, with both sons flanking him—Peter stiff-backed, Paul leaning into his arrogance. Their presence was a performance.
"Quite the week you've had, Ken," Rick said smoothly, stopping three feet short. No hand extended. No greeting. "Making headlines I see."
Ken's voice came low and measured, never shifting his stance. "I don't care for the theatrics, Rick. Say what you came to say."
Peter bristled slightly. Paul smirked.
Rick stepped forward, hands neatly behind his back. "A girl appears out of nowhere—adopted, you say. And immediately placed in the line of inheritance. You must know what that looks like... to the family. To Grandmother."
Now Ken turned.
The room chilled.
"She is under my protection," Ken said. "That is all anyone needs to know."
Rick's smile didn't touch his eyes. "Of course. Protection. But you're not a sentimental man, Ken.You Never have been. So this... adoption... seems out of character. Unless there's more you're not telling us."
Ken walked to the center of the room with deliberate calm, stopping just short of Rick. "You seem unusually concerned with my private affairs."
"I'm concerned," Rick said gently, "with clarity. The kind our grandmother values."
At the mention of her, Ken's eyes flicked cold.
"Don't use her name to veil your ambitions," he said.
Paul stepped in. "Grandmother ran this legacy on control and bloodline. No surprises. No unknowns. When things become messy, it invites weakness... and re-evaluation."
Ken tilted his head, gaze razor-sharp. "Re-evaluation?"
Peter cleared his throat, too eager. "You've held the seat for years, but with Grandmother still alive, nothing is permanent. Especially not when secrecy clouds your decisions."
Rick let the silence breathe. "She may call for a... discussion. After all, the Rowland name has never been passed to outsiders."
A pause.
Ken's voice dropped an octave. "You think I'd give the Rowland name to someone unworthy?"
"No," Rick said. "But Grandmother might. And she's always had a special fondness for tradition. She may question whether your... current path aligns with hers."
Ken didn't blink. "Speak, clearly." He commanded
Rick stayed still, smiling faintly. "I want what's best for the bloodline."
Ken's stare sliced through the air like ice.
The pressure in the room spiked.
Ken moved past them toward his desk, but each step felt like the turning of a guillotine wheel.
"She's mine," he said. "And no one touches her. Not with words. Not with doubts. Not with schemes."
Peter opened his mouth but Ken cut across him.
"And until Grandmother says otherwise, I am the family's voice. Try and take that from me—see how far you get."
Rick inhaled slowly. "She may ask to meet the girl."
"She'll meet her," Ken said without turning. "When I decide the time is right."
The message was clear.
You will not force my hand.
Rick nodded once, too tight to be respectful. "Then we'll await your judgment. For now."
He turned on his heel, Peter and Paul behind him like obedient dogs—though Paul's pride cracked slightly as he glanced back one last time.
When the door shut, Ken stood in silence. Controlled. Cold.
But beneath the composed mask, his mind was already racing.
They were getting desperate.
And that made them dangerous.