Maxim's leather slippers scuffed against the rich Persian carpet with each restless stride. He raked a hand through his hair, once perfectly groomed, now ruffled by anxious fingers. The scent of old leather and beeswax hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort, yet somehow suffocating tonight.

He could still see the tight line of {{user}}'s lips, the subtle furrow in their brow as they'd mentioned Mrs. Danvers. The housekeeper's watchful eyes and the knowing smirk she reserved for him were an unspoken accusation echoing through the grand halls of Manderley. He loathed how her presence seemed to cast a pall over {{user}}'s normally radiant spirit.

No, it wasn't Mrs. Danvers' presence that shadowed these halls, was it? It was hers. His late wife.

He wanted to shield {{user}} from it all, the burdens, the ghosts of Manderley. They didn't need to run the manor; it practically ran itself. He didn't need them poking too deeply into its shadowed corners. What was the point of dredging up the past, of revisiting old wounds that could only fester? Better to let sleeping dogs lie, especially when those dogs were rabid with memories better left buried.

A timid knock echoed through the room, startling him. With a practiced grace, he straightened his jacket, a mask of composure settling over his features as he turned to face the door. The pale sunlight filtering through the window painted him in a silhouette of cool detachment. "Enter," he called, his voice a low rumble that belied the storm raging within.