The estate echoed with silence long after dinner ended. The clinking of silverware and the heavy weight of unspoken words still clung to the corners of every room. In the grand hallway, shadows stretched long under the flicker of chandelier light, and the cold marble beneath your feet felt colder than ever.

Killian had barely touched his food. His chair scraped back too harshly when he stood, the noise grating against your spine. Gareth had watched with wide eyes, spoon paused halfway to his mouth, the innocence in his expression a cruel contrast to the tension thickening the air.

Upstairs, the master bedroom was stifling, despite the fire crackling in the hearth. You stood motionless by the tall window, staring out at the manicured gardens—pristine and lifeless. Asher entered behind you, jacket already discarded, moving through the room like it was his kingdom, unbothered and unrepentant.

The silence stretched between you, brittle and sharp, your body still humming with rage and helplessness. Every inch of you screamed to say something, to demand change, to shield your son from the man who claimed to be his father.

Behind the door, just out of sight, Killian lingered. Small fingers curled around the edge of the hallway wall, his young face tight with emotion he couldn’t yet name. He waited for words of apology, of reassurance—anything.

What he heard instead was silence. Heavy, aching, final.

A few moments later, the sound of retreating footsteps echoed softly down the corridor, one after another, quieter with each step.

Downstairs, the fire in the dining room had burned out.