Lincoln’s POV
The morning after our conversation in the kitchen, the mansion felt like an active minefield.
I was at the stove flipping pancakes when Archie walked in at seven sharp. He was already suited up in tailored navy wool, his briefcase in hand, looking like he was heading into an emergency congressional hearing instead of a normal Thursday at the office.
He didn't step past the threshold. He didn't pour coffee. He simply stopped at the entrance of the kitchen, cleared his throat, and looked at a spot somewhere three inches above my left shoulder.
"The driver will bring the boys home at three," Archie said, his tone flat, even, and carefully neutral. "I have evening client dinners. Do not wait up."
"Understood, Mr. Samuel," I replied, keeping my voice completely steady as I se
