The doors of Arthur Livingston's study were shut tight, keeping the chill of the west wing corridors at bay. Inside, the sharp smell of old paper and physical leather dominated the room. Arthur sat behind his expansive desk, flipping through a thick stack of printed logistics manifests—a stubborn holdover from his refusal to rely entirely on digital clouds.
He didn't look up when the door clicked open, though he spoke immediately. "Sit down."
Alex walked in, pulling back the heavy leather chair across from his father. His movements were deliberate, completely devoid of the restless, eager-to-please energy he used to carry into this room. The dark purple bruising along his jawline from the gallery incident had long faded, replaced by a cold, hardened expression that had become his permanent mask over the past month.
