The fire crackled, sending long shadows across the drawing room. Outside, the snow hammered the estate like a drum, piling high against the windows until the world beyond was gone. Inside, the tension was already palpable. Rowan Ashcroft had gathered you all tonight, claiming he had “answers.” No one had left, no one could leave.

Archer Estrada stood by the fireplace, back to the wall as usual. His dark eyes scanned the room, assessing, noting every subtle shift in posture. Beside him, you fiddled nervously with a glass of wine, pretending to be absorbed in the flames.

“Shall we begin?” Rowan’s voice cut through the murmurs. He was leaning against the mantle, notebook in hand, eyes glinting like a blade. “I think it’s time someone finally tells the story.”

Vivian Locke gave a low, controlled laugh. “Stories are dangerous things, Mr. Ashcroft. Especially ones that involve people like us.”

Caleb Reed shifted in his seat, glowering at Rowan. “Or truths. Some of us remember truths that are inconvenient for people who… profit from tragedy.”

Julian Vale smirked, swirling the wine in his glass. “Convenient truths, Caleb. Very convenient. But let’s not pretend anyone here has clean hands.”

Marisol Vega leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, observing. Quiet, still. The only sound she made was a soft click as she tapped her fingernails on her notebook.

Elias Morven crouched by the records cabinet, pretending to examine a stack of old papers. “It seems,” he said without looking up, “that the snow will keep us all here longer than expected. I hope everyone is comfortable with waiting until morning.”

Rowan clapped his hands once, sharply. “Good. Because I’ve gathered you all here precisely to reveal what really happened ten years ago—and why it matters now.”

A tense silence fell, broken by a sudden cough from Vivian. “And if someone doesn’t want the truth to come out?” she asked, voice measured.

Rowan’s eyes flicked to her. “Then perhaps…” He trailed off, smiling. “They’ll take matters into their own hands.”

A cold draft blew through the room from a door left ajar, but no one moved to close it. Archer’s hand subtly brushed the mantel, thumb resting near the poker, a silent preparation. You noticed and swallowed hard.

Caleb’s voice rose. “I’ve waited ten years for this! And I’ll be damned if I let anyone twist the story to protect themselves!”

Julian leaned forward, voice silky. “Ah, yes, justice, dear Caleb. So inspiring, so… predictable. You all want the same thing: someone else to take the fall.”

Suddenly, Rowan laughed softly. Too softly. “Everyone here has secrets, yes. Everyone. And yet you still sit, pretending innocence.”

A shadow moved behind the fireplace curtains. Elias froze. Marisol’s eyes narrowed. You felt Archer tense beside you. Then Rowan’s voice went quiet, a soft rasp.

“I wanted to wait until tomorrow, but I can’t…” He reached for his glass.

Archer’s head snapped toward him, alert. “Rowan—”

It was too late. Rowan stumbled slightly, grasping at the edge of the mantel. The wine glass tipped. A faint hiss of liquid, then silence.

Vivian gasped. “He’s—he’s choking!”

Caleb rushed forward, hands fumbling at Rowan’s chest. Julian backed up, expression twisting into concern—or calculation.

Marisol stepped forward calmly. “No pulse,” she said flatly.

The room erupted.

Vivian spun around. “Poison!” she hissed, eyes darting at everyone. “It has to be!”

Julian ran a hand through his hair. “In a room like this? With all of us? That’s… bold.”

Caleb’s voice cracked. “Who—who would do this?”

Marisol’s gaze flicked to you and Archer, slow, calculating. “Someone who knew what they were doing,” she said, voice low. “Someone who knows Rowan too well.”

Elias closed the cabinet with a soft thud, finally looking at the group. “We are all trapped here until morning,” he said evenly. “Snowstorm isn’t letting anyone leave. Whoever did this—” He paused. “—is among us.”