Lucian
Mara and I woke up early, ready to skip breakfast and head straight to the office. We needed distance—from the chaos, from the politics, from them. But of course, my father ruined that plan when he linked me:
“Family breakfast. My lounge. Be there.”
I almost crushed the tablet in my hand.
Mara’s idea of getting a ‘holiday home’ was no longer a distant plan. It was happening. The mansion might have been home once, but now it felt like a web of manipulation. And I was done getting caught in it.
Our family was a disaster. But Mara and I—we’d found our rhythm, our peace. The last thing I needed was the rot in the Nighthorn house creeping into what we were building.
If it were up to me, Tina would never see my face again.
In the shower, Mara lathered a sponge and began scrubbing m
