The master bedroom of the Estate was a vast expanse of minimalist luxury, Malcolm Ford stood before his walk-in wardrobe—with a sleek, carbon-fiber suitcase laid open on a leather bench.
His movements were methodical, almost robotic. He folded a charcoal-grey cashmere sweater, his fingers lingering on the fabric. Usually, this process was cathartic, a way to exert control over his environment. But tonight, his mind was a chaotic theater of silver flashes and the phantom scent of lilies. Every time he reached for a garment, he felt the subtle thrum of the Enigma's mark in his marrow, a reminder of the "freak" who had touched his skin and the "boy" who had exposed his waist.
The silence of the room was shattered by the sharp, melodic trill of his private phone. He didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who it was. Only one person had a ringtone that bypassed his "Do Not Disturb" settings.
He tapped his Bluetooth earpiece. "Mother."
