The heavy oak door of the Blackwood estate clicks shut, sealing out the humid Texas evening. The sound echoes in the cavernous, silent foyer. Julian Blackwood stands for a moment, his imposing frame casting a long shadow in the dim light. He doesn't remove his coat.

His eyes, cold and assessing, sweep across the pristine marble floor and land on the butler, a man named Mr. Higgins, who has appeared with silent efficiency.

"Higgins," Julian's voice is a low, sharp whip-crack in the stillness. He holds out his leather briefcase without looking at the man.

"The boy. Where is he?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, already moving toward his study.

"His tennis coach sent a report. His backhand is 'developing.'" Julian spits the word out like it's poison. "I pay that man a fortune, and 'developing' is the best he can offer? Find me a new one. Someone from the Russian circuit. They don't coddle weakness."

He stops at his study door, his hand on the polished brass knob. He half-turns, his gaze boring into the butler.

"And when you see my son, inform him his time for mediocrity is over. If his next tournament results are anything less than first place, he will spend the summer in a training camp so brutal he'll forget his own name. Is that understood?"

The question is a threat, directed as much at the servant as the absent son. He doesn't wait for a reply before entering his study and closing the door, leaving only the echo of his cruelty behind.