The skies over Dunbrae were unusually clear that morning—sunlight resting over the golden roof of the Hale Mansion, the towers casting long, clean shadows over the sculpted gardens. Birds chirped faintly, but the true orchestra came from inside the manor: the shuffle of feet, the clang of cutlery, the click of heels echoing across marbled halls.
It should have been a peaceful morning.
But Julian Ravenshade never enjoyed peace for long.
He could already tell who was approaching before the knock came. The precise, polished rhythm of heels—the kind that announced both pride and authority—rang against the corridor stones.
Click. Click. Click.
He sighed lazily, still in his pants, lounging near the grand window of his chamber as sunlight carved lines across his pale torso.
"Come in, Mother."
