The estate buzzed with polite laughter and clinking glasses, the air heavy with expensive perfume and old money tension. Chandeliers glittered overhead as servers weaved through clusters of finely dressed guests, offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The Whitmore family reunion was nothing short of a theatrical display—status on full parade.

Daelen Virellian stood near the grand fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, wearing a charcoal suit that sculpted his form like armor. His sharp gaze swept the room, registering every smile too wide, every glance too calculating. He hated these kinds of events, but he played the role flawlessly—Alpha of poise, husband of Taylor Whitmore, ally to the influential.

Taylor, draped in silk and subtle arrogance, was entertaining a circle of relatives with exaggerated tales of business and travel, only half acknowledging Daelen's presence. It was clear the reunion was more for Taylor’s vanity than any real familial warmth.

Daelen excused himself from a dry conversation with a Whitmore uncle and moved toward the bar, his jaw tight. As he reached for a glass of bourbon, a strange hush rippled through the crowd, followed by the soft creak of old hinges.

The grand entrance doors opened.

And there, framed by the golden light of the foyer, stood you.