The grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimed softly.
Eight o’clock.
Outside, the iron gates slid open without a sound, and a black Rolls-Royce Phantom eased up the long driveway, headlights sweeping across neatly trimmed hedges before rolling to a stop beneath the portico.
The driver was out and at the rear door before it had fully settled.
Liam stepped out with the same unhurried composure he brought to everything — charcoal suit still immaculate despite the length of the day, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, jacket draped over one forearm.
He loosened his tie a fraction, enough to breathe, and crossed onto the marble with Ethan falling into step beside him.
Staff lined the hallway.
“Good evening, Mr.
Macford.” He answered each with the barest nod, never slowing.
Neither of them spoke until they reached the sitting room — the silence between them worn comfortable by years of not needing to fill it.
Liam set his jacket over the back of a stool and reached for the decanter, pouring two glasses without looking, sliding one across the bar.
Ethan caught it without needing to check.
“Thanks.”
Liam studied the slow turn of whiskey in his glass before taking a measured sip.
“How did it go?”
“Our men found Raphael’s warehouse.” Ethan rested an elbow on the counter.
“They carried out your orders.
The whole place went up.”
Liam said nothing, waiting.
“Raphael got out.”
For the first time since walking through the door, Liam went completely still.
“…Escaped.”
“There was an underground exit under the building.
Nobody found it until the fire had already taken the place apart.”
Silence settled between them.
Liam looked down at his glass, and a faint, humorless smile touched one corner of his mouth.
“Persistent.”
Ethan let out something close to a laugh.
“Had a feeling that’d be your reaction.”
“What about Alcanzo?”
Ethan pulled up the tablet tucked under his arm, scrolling.
“Expanding through the eastern docks.
He’s been buying up routes Raphael used to control.” A pause.
“Recruiting hard, from what our people can tell.”
Liam finished his drink and set the empty glass down, the click of it against marble the only sound in the room for a moment.
“It’s about time I dealt with him.” His voice didn’t rise.
It never needed to.
“Find his headquarters.
I want confirmed locations this time — not guesses.”
“Good.”
Ethan closed the tablet.
“I’ll—”
Soft footsteps cut him off.
“Mr.
Macford?”
Both men turned.
Margaret stood a respectful distance off.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Liam waited.
“It’s about Miss Wilson.” A brief hesitation.
“She refused breakfast.
And lunch.” Another pause, quieter.
“And dinner.”
The room went noticeably still.
Liam’s face didn’t change.
“So she hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
“No, sir.”
“And no one thought to tell me.”
Margaret’s gaze dropped.
“We assumed she’d change her mind.” A pause.
“She hasn’t.
She’s said she won’t eat until she’s spoken with you.”
Liam said nothing for a long moment, thumb tracing once around the rim of his empty glass.
Then he exhaled and reached for his jacket.
“Have the kitchen prepare something good.
Bring it up.”
“Right away, sir.”
Ethan tucked the tablet back under his arm.
“I’ll leave you to it.
Looks like you’ve got another problem waiting upstairs.”
“How considerate of you.”
A grin flickered across Ethan’s face before he turned toward the entrance without another word.
Liam watched him go, then let his gaze settle on the staircase.
After a moment, he started up it.
Camille lay curled beneath the duvet, staring at nothing.
The room had gone dark hours ago, the last color of sunset long since surrendered to the soft glow of garden lights through the tall windows.
Somewhere beyond the walls, crickets sang into the night as if nothing here was wrong at all.
She wondered if it was the same back home.
The word alone made her throat close up.
Was her father still awake, staring at nothing the way she was?
Had Lauren cried herself to sleep by now?
Kelly was probably calling her phone over and over, praying each time that this would be the one that finally connected.
And Aunt Ane — Aunt Ane would be trying to hold everyone else together while quietly falling apart herself, the way she always did, the way she had once before, fourteen years ago, behind a different set of walls entirely.
A tear slid silently into her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one.
Her stomach growled, sharp enough to hurt.
She closed her eyes against it.
Every time she let herself think about the tray downstairs, some other part of her answered immediately: if I eat, it’s like accepting this.
Accepting him.
Accepting that this is just what my life is now.
She couldn’t.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
She pulled the duvet higher, pressing one hand flat against her stomach as if that might quiet it.
“I’ll endure it,” she murmured.
“Just a little longer.”
Then—
Click.
The lock turning.
She didn’t move, didn’t bother opening her eyes.
“I already told you people — I’m not eating.” Her voice came out hollow with exhaustion.
“So please.
Just leave me alone.”
Silence answered instead.
For one suspended second she thought whoever it was had already gone.
Then a low, composed voice cut through the dark, amusement threaded carefully underneath it.
“…You’re surprisingly bossy for someone living in my house rent-free.”
Her eyes snapped open.
She knew that voice before she’d even fully turned toward the door.
Liam stood in the frame, one shoulder against it, jacket over his forearm, the top buttons of his shirt undone and his tie loosened just enough to take the edge off a long day.
Everything about him still read composed, controlled — but something in the way he held himself tonight carried a weight that hadn’t been there before, a tiredness he wasn’t quite bothering to hide from her, whether or not he meant to let it show.
His eyes moved over the untouched room — the tray long gone, the duvet pulled up to her chin — before finally settling on her.
For a moment, she simply stared back, unable to look away even though every instinct told her to.
He pushed off the doorframe and crossed toward her, footsteps almost silent against the wood floor, gaze never once leaving hers.
“So,” he said, stopping a few feet from the bed, voice perfectly even.
“I’ve been informed you’re trying to starve yourself.”