Dinner at the Blackwoods’ Manor had ended hours ago, yet the air still carried the faint echo of what had transpired.
After the meal, everyone had retreated to the garden to enjoy tea under the soft glow of lanterns. Laughter drifted through the night as Dahlia and Dominic shared old stories about Julian and Malia—memories from days long past.
Maya and Jaime listened intently, eyes wide with wonder. Every tale felt like discovering another piece of their parents—a glimpse into the lives they never had the chance to know. The night was warm, easy, filled with the kind of happiness that made time feel momentarily forgiving.
Everyone was content.
Everyone except one.
Ashcroft had excused himself early, his tone polite but clipped, muttering something about needing to “take care of a few
