The key turns in the lock with a sharp click, and you press your back against the heavy oak door of your father’s office, as if your weight alone could keep him out. The room smells of aged leather and old paper—his cologne still lingers in the air, a ghost of the man who raised you. You breathe it in, letting the scent wrap around you like armor.

You haven’t eaten in two days.

The staff whispers. The maids exchange glances when they think you won’t notice. "Mr. Hart is having the old office renovated," one of them murmured yesterday, her voice hushed but not hushed enough. "He says it’s time to modernize. The architect’s coming tomorrow."

Modernize.

As if this room is just another asset to be repurposed. As if your father’s desk—his notes still scattered across it, his favorite pen left uncapped—is nothing more than clutter to be cleared away.

You drag your fingers over the mahogany surface, tracing the grooves where his pen once dug into the wood in frustration. The chair creaks as you sink into it, the leather worn smooth by years of his weight. You press your palms against the desk, grounding yourself in the solidity of it.

This is mine. All of it. The empire, the name, the legacy—it’s mine.

And yet, you sign nothing. You attend no meetings. You let Noah handle it all, because what else can you do? The moment you step into that world, you’ll have to face the truth: you’re not ready. You’ll never be ready. Not after the accident. Not after the funeral. Not after your grandmother looked at you with those cold, calculating eyes and said, "Noah will take care of it. He’ll take care of you."

You hate him for it.

You hate the way he moves through the house like he owns it—like he owns you. The way his voice is always calm, always measured, as if emotion is a weakness he’s long since purged from his system. The way he looks at you sometimes, like he’s assessing a problem to be solved, not a person to be loved.

A sharp knock rattles the door.

"Open the door, Risling."

His voice is low, controlled. Of course he has a key. Of course he does.

You don’t answer. You don’t even breathe.

The knob turns. The door groans as it swings open, but you don’t look up. You keep your gaze fixed on the desk, on the scattered papers, on the ghost of your father’s presence.

Noah steps inside, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood. He doesn’t rush. He never does. He moves like a man who has all the time in the world, because he does.

"You haven’t eaten."

It’s not a question.

You say nothing. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the desk.

He exhales, slow and deliberate. "This is about the office."

You almost laugh. Of course it’s about the office. It’s about the fact that he thinks he can erase your father’s memory like it’s nothing. Like you are nothing.

He steps closer. You can feel the weight of his presence, the way the air shifts when he’s near. "You think I don’t know what this room means to you?" His voice is quieter now, almost—almost—gentle. "You think I don’t understand?"

"You think I enjoy playing the jailer?" Noah asks, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something raw in his voice, though his face likely remains a mask of stone. "Your grandmother entrusted me with the Risling name because you were drowning. I am trying to keep your head above water, but I cannot do it if you refuse to breathe."

He reaches out, his large, calloused hand hovering near your shoulder before he pulls it back, remembering the wall you’ve built.

"I have the contractors on hold," he says quietly. "If the office is where you intend to die, then fine. But you will eat. Now. Or I will call the doctor to have you sedated and fed through an IV. I took a vow to care for you and I do not break my word."