The reading had been arranged to look inevitable—an event staged with the precision of a court performance.
Guests filled the drawing room in small clusters, their faces composed into the expressions that sold sympathy best. Cameras, when not asked to leave, were positioned at polite distances, lenses hungry for curated grief.
Sebastian Crowe stood by Victor's arm like a translator of official sorrow, his hands empty of warmth.
Nyx entered with a quiet that made the marble floor sound louder.
Cassandra's hand rested near Seraphine's sleeve, steadying the golden child in public. Victor's jaw bore the same crease it wore in business negotiations. Elara sat near the hearth like a small, still authority—no speech, only weight.
Mr. Han arranged the chairs with small, exact movements, like a man smoothing a tablecloth over something inconvenient.
Sebastian cleared his throat. His voice carried the tenor of an attorney performing charity. He spoke of misfortune, of accident, and then—in the tone of one who had rehearsed it—of documents and inheritance.
It was a careful phrase, legal ballast for whichever way the family chose to steer the public.
Nyx watched the faces. Lady Mireille dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, but her smile gleamed through the grief. Lord Thorne's gaze lingered on Seraphine as though appraising a prize.
Beneath the performances, the truth smelled of money and mathematics.
Sebastian announced the reading would proceed, though missing a page. His voice softened as he assured the room the family would "respect the law and its obligations."
The absence of the page became a vacuum, and others rushed to fill it. Voices murmured. Journalists scratched manageable scandal into their notes.
On a small card behind the lawyer's briefcase lay a notation of a revised will—one that, whispered in quiet rooms, would favor Seraphine.
Nyx felt its ghost shift the balance of air.
Then Cassandra moved. With a soft, practiced flourish, she lifted a printed statement and read aloud.
It was not the will.
It was a decision.
"Given recent events," Cassandra said, "the family council has decided to enact protective measures for the estate. While legal procedures continue, Miss Nyx Valeran will…"
The pause tightened like a noose.
"…be placed under temporary guardianship, with provisions for her well-being while the house conducts audits."
Her tone was smooth, artfully concerned. She looked at Nyx with the kind of pity reserved for inconvenient children.
The guests murmured approval. A cousin nodded. A guest sighed.
Nyx's hands went numb.
"Guardianship," she whispered, tasting the word like something foreign.
Victor's nod was small, final. He didn't look at her. Cassandra steered the narrative while he outsourced the embarrassment.
Only Elara's eyes softened for a heartbeat, a fleeting regret.
Sebastian's voice smoothed it into protocol. "For Nyx's security, and to prevent distress, the family recommends temporary relocation until legal matters are resolved."
Words became wrenches. The room's rhythm closed around her, rearranging her into the picture someone else had chosen.
Mr. Han stepped forward with logistics. "A small baggage will be arranged. Transportation provided."
"Exile," Nyx breathed.
Cassandra's smile was a velvet hammer. "We are only protecting you. There is no shame in accepting help."
But Nyx knew: in that house, help began with the removal of breath.
They gathered her things like a guest departing after a long stay. Marta folded clothes with museum-care. Jonas moved as though already ashamed.
Nyx expected anger. Instead, clarity came cold and sharp.
If a page could be removed, then a page could be reclaimed.
When the carriage waited at the gate, Elara finally stepped forward. She moved to Nyx's side with no curtain between them.
"Come," Elara whispered. "We will not let them write everything for you."
Nyx's voice cracked. "You could stop them. You could say—"
Elara's gaze was weary but fierce. "Some wars are better fought with ledger and letter than battle cries. Gather proof you can show without shouting."
The carriage rolled away. The city lamps blurred into the night. The estate shrank behind her, like someone had pushed the chapter forward without her consent.
At the rented home, Mr. Han supervised boxes. Marta left tea on the table. Jonas muttered apologies he couldn't finish.
Nyx folded the scrap of paper with its strange emblem and tucked it into her pocket. Names swirled in her head—Cassandra, Seraphine, Victor—but names weren't enough. She needed evidence.
That night, silence pressed against her.
Until—
A soft knock rattled the door at midnight.
Nyx's heart raced. She opened it a crack.
No face. Only a slim envelope slid beneath the threshold.
Ledger page—one name. Meet where the laurel's shadow leans on the third step at dawn. Come alone.
No signature. Just the same emblem as the scrap in her dress.
Her breath stuttered.
Someone was watching. And now, someone was offering a thread.
She could wait for law and protocol—or step into the shadows.
Nyx slipped the envelope into her pocket and made a dangerous promise to herself: she would find the missing page.
Dawn was coming. So was the game.
But who had sent the letter? A hidden ally… or the very hand that had stolen everything from her?