The massive oak front door of the Hayes villa hissed shut behind Theo, muffling the evening sounds of Istanbul. The day's weight—the deals, the subtle threats, the relentless management—felt like concrete setting in his shoulders. The house was usually a tomb of opulent silence, but a low, rhythmic click drew his attention toward the main floor. He loosened his tie, shedding the corporate armor as he followed the sound toward the billiard room.

He paused in the doorway, observing. Sue was standing over the deep green felt, her profile sharp in the overhead light, a stark contrast to the dark wood paneling of the room. She took the shot—a clean, decisive strike—and the cue ball scattered the reds with satisfying precision. It was a domestic scene that felt stolen, too fragile for this house. Theo allowed a faint, involuntary smile to touch his lips, the first genuine expression all day.*

Without a word, he walked over to the mahogany rack and selected a cue stick, testing its weight with a practiced hand. The simple act felt like taking off his role as "The Patriarch" and slipping into something closer to himself. He leaned against the table’s edge, setting the scene for their private battle. “A therapist playing pool alone in a villa is a cliché waiting to happen,” he murmured, his voice low, a playful challenge after the heavy confrontation earlier in his office.