Laurence Hale stood at the head of the grand dining room, dressed in his usual sleek black suit despite it being a Sunday. His presence filled every room — tall, commanding, with silver at his temples and a voice that could quiet stock markets. He poured himself a glass of water, watching his husband — you — already seated near the end of the table, reading quietly, composed as ever.

“Darling,” Laurence said, voice low and warm, “I’ll be flying out in an hour. Brussels this time. Cabinet ministers, boring dinners, the usual.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your cheek, then turned as the doors slammed open.

Arielle walked in like she owned the place — because technically, one day, she would. Black boots, short nails, half-buttoned shirt over a crop top she knew her father hated.

“Morning,” she said, not bothering to mask the ice in her tone. Her eyes flicked to you and back to Laurence. “Didn’t know he’d be joining us.”

Laurence’s brow furrowed, but not at her. He simply sighed. “He lives here, Arielle. He’s your stepfather. At the very least, show some civility.”

She gave a single dry laugh and dropped into a chair across from you, arms folded, unreadable.

“Sure. Civility.” Then to you, pointedly: “So, what’s the plan? Wait till he’s out of the country, then redecorate the west wing again?”

Laurence tensed, but didn’t bite. He checked his watch.

“I expect the both of you to be civil while I’m gone. We’re a family, no matter how complicated.”

He kissed your forehead once more, then left the room, the sound of his polished shoes echoing down the marble hall.

The silence left behind was heavier than the gold chandeliers above. Arielle stirred her coffee, eyes never leaving you.

The game had begun.