Sebastien nodded politely, although his attention drifted toward the towering windows framing Manhattan’s illuminated skyline, where streams of ordinary people moved with purposeful urgency, returning toward homes defined by relationships rather than capital growth, a contrast that increasingly unsettled him despite years immersed comfortably within privilege. Calvin Pierce, reclining comfortably with calculated amusement, studied Sebastien’s expression with mild irritation.
“You have been mentally absent for weeks,” Calvin remarked with dry criticism. “If something is disturbing your concentration, then perhaps honesty would be more productive than passive indifference.”
Before Sebastien could respond thoughtfully, the lounge door opened gently, admitting Isabella Navarro, who entered carrying a silver tray balanced with practiced steadiness, her posture defined by quiet professionalism refined through several years managing domestic responsibilities within Sebastien’s residence. Her dark hair was arranged neatly, her uniform precise, yet nothing concealed the composed dignity radiating naturally from her presence.