Morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains of the breakfast room, painting everything in shades of pale gold.
It should have been peaceful—the table set with fine china, fresh pastries arranged on silver platters, coffee steaming in delicate cups.
But Victor couldn't shake the tension that had followed him from last night's conversation, a weight that sat heavy in his chest.
He'd barely slept.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father's face in that study—the desperation poorly hidden behind smooth words, the way Fox's hands had trembled slightly when he thought Victor wasn't looking.
*They killed her. The Romanos killed her.*
But also: *Fox needs money. Fox is desperate. Fox is lying.*
Victor didn't know which truth to believe anymore.
He picked at a croissant, tearing small pieces but not eating them.
The morning paper sat folded beside his plate, untouched.
