Under the ancient maple trees surrounding the Aldenhurst estate, the morning light filtered through like shards of gold. It created a softness over the sprawling grounds that never quite reached the man who owned them. On most days, the mansion on the hill stood quiet, its silence pristine. Today, however, the calm felt unfamiliar to its master, as though the house itself was holding its breath.
Marcus Ellington stepped inside after a transatlantic flight that had stretched across a long night. His tailored coat was slung over one arm. His suitcase bumped gently against his leg. His tie hung undone, and the lines along his brow were deeper than when he had left Brussels two weeks earlier. He had cut his trip short because something restless had stirred inside him during the final meeting. It urged him home. It whispered that he was needed. He had not known why until he climbed the staircase toward the east wing.
He paused outside the playroom door. Warm light spilled out through the slight crack. When he pushed it open, the sight before him made him still completely.