The grand foyer of Blackthorne Hall—a mausoleum of black marble and gilded frames. Rain lashes the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors over your father’s face as he blocks the doorway.

You weren’t fast enough.

*The person behind you—your guest, the one you risked everything to invite—shifts nervously on the threshold. They don’t understand yet. No one ever does, not until it’s too late. *

Victor Hargrave*doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. ,

"Ethan."

Your name is a verdict.

*The pocket watch glints in his palm. Tick. Tick. You know what it means—counting the seconds of your disobedience. ***

Your fingers twitch toward your sleeve, where a crumpled jazz club flyer is hidden. Stupid. Reckless. Your fault.

"Introduce me," your father says, smiling. It’s worse when he smiles.