Weston Kade had watched men beg for their lives without feeling his pulse change.

The heavy mahogany doors of the Kade estate library were closed tight against the midnight chill, but the cold still seemed to seep through the stonework, settling deep into Weston Kade’s bones. He sat behind a massive oak desk that had belonged to his grandfather—a man who had built an empire on blood, grit, and calculated cruelty. Weston had inherited the empire, along with the blood and the cruelty, but lately, the calculation felt like a burden too heavy to lift.

Across the room stood Julian, his senior advisor and shadow of twenty years. Julian’s suit was immaculate, his silver-streaked hair brushed to perfection, but his eyes were heavy with fatigue.

"The Marchetti transport is secured for Thursday," Julian said, his voice measured and devoid of emotion. "Silas wants confirmation on the guest list for the engagement gala. The city council members are demanding invitations. They want to be seen standing next to the truce."

Weston didn't look up from the leather-bound ledger open before him. His fingers traced the edge of the heavy brass pen holder. "Let them come. A room full of vultures is easier to manage when they are all feeding at the same table."

"And Genevieve?" Julian asked carefully, weighing every syllable. "She called twice this afternoon. She wishes to discuss the floral arrangements for the ceremony."

"Tell her to work with the decorator," Weston replied flatly. "I don't care about flowers."

Julian hesitated, shifting his weight. "She is your future wife, Weston. Or at least, she will be once the papers are signed next month. The alliance requires a certain... public warmth."

"Warmth," Weston repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Tell her to buy whatever she wants. Charge it to the general ledger."

He dismissed Julian with a flick of his wrist. The older man bowed slightly and withdrew, leaving Weston alone with the ghosts of his past.

The silence of the estate rushed back in, heavy and suffocating. Weston stood up, walking toward the tall arched windows that overlooked the fog-shrouded gardens. Four months ago, he would have spent this hour reviewing shipment manifests or updating security protocols for the upcoming ports. Tonight, however, his mind drifted away from the syndicate.

It drifted to a tiny, peeling apartment on the east side of the city—a place he had stumbled upon earlier that evening while trailing a low-level courier suspected of skimming syndicate funds. He hadn't planned on stepping inside the building, let alone watching through a cracked doorway as a four-year-old girl divided a single slice of bread with mathematical precision and heartbreaking innocence.

Her name, he had later learned from the building superintendent's ledger, was Lily. Her mother, Clara, worked as a part-time maid at one of Weston’s downtown hotels—the very hotel where Genevieve often held her charity committee meetings. Clara was a ghost of a woman, working double shifts, vanishing into the pre-dawn mist and returning long after dark, leaving her daughter in the care of a cracked windowpane, a faded photograph, and a patched rag doll.

Weston clenched his jaw. He was a monster who ordered executions without blinking, yet the image of that child offering a crumb of bread to an empty chair had unspooled something dark and rusted inside his chest.

He reached into his tailored overcoat hanging over the back of the chair and pulled out a small, mud-stained object he had picked up from the floor just outside the apartment door when he had finally turned away. It was a child's hair ribbon, frayed at the edges, colored a faded, cheerful yellow—the exact same shade as Nadia’s rain boots standing outside the locked bedroom upstairs.