Damien felt it before he understood it.
The estate was too still.
Not the calm, controlled stillness he was accustomed to—but the kind left behind by an absence that didn’t belong. The kind that sharpened instinct and unsettled certainty.
He checked the time.
9:58 a.m.
His jaw tightened.
They should have been back.
Across the table, Ashcroft caught the shift almost immediately. His gaze drifting toward the corridor that led deeper into the house—then toward the front doors.
“Something wrong?” he asked casually, though his eyes were anything but idle.
Before Damien could respond, James entered the breakfast hall.
Impeccably dressed, as always—tailored suit, precise posture, professionalism worn like armor. A tablet rested in one hand, his attention split between the screen and the
