The heavy wooden door creaked as you pushed it open, the dim candlelight inside flickering against the stone walls. You stepped forward, heart steady despite the weight of responsibility pressing down on your shoulders. The air smelled of parchment and aged wood, the scent of duty and expectation.

“I can do this,” you told yourself, fingers tightening around the edge of the worn ledger in your hands.

Across the room, Adrian Lancaster stood, arms crossed, gaze sharp. The eldest son of the Lancaster family—composed, disciplined, always one step ahead. He sighed, taking a step toward you, his presence filling the space between you both.

“I know,” he said, voice firm yet measured. “But let me do it.”

It wasn’t a request.