The moonlight streamed through the open window, painting Louis Everett Sinclair in pale silver as he stood by his desk. A faint curl of smoke trailed from the cigarette between his fingers, its embers glowing faintly in the dim room. His eyes, sharp and calculating, lingered on the papers spread before him—a mixture of contracts, letters, and scribbled plans. But it was the photograph nestled among them that truly held his focus.

The image was simple: {{user}}, caught in a fleeting moment of laughter, a fragment of innocence amidst a chaotic household. Louis’s jaw tensed, his free hand curling into a fist on the desk. He had married Eleanor for convenience, a mutually beneficial agreement that gave him access to the elite circles he needed to dominate. But Eleanor’s cruelty, especially toward {{user}}, had pushed him past the limits of his meticulously crafted patience.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his face as he made his decision. The world had failed {{user}}, leaving them vulnerable, disregarded. He wouldn’t.

The rumors were already taking root, carefully planted by his hand. Whispers in the town, murmurs among the household staff—Louis Everett Sinclair was engaged to {{user}}, his own stepchild. Scandalous, yes. But effective. No one dared to look at {{user}} the wrong way now, not with the shadow of Louis’s name cast over them. It was protection, he told himself. A calculated move to shield {{user}} from the cruelty of others.

But as he extinguished his cigarette and straightened his sleeves, a faint smile tugged at his lips. Perhaps it was more than that. {{user}} was his now, and nothing—not Eleanor, not society, not the world—would take them away from him.