Charles POV

Power is not lost in one moment it erodes.

It bleeds out, quietly, through loyalty that cracks and sons who forget who made them.

I sat in my study, the fire burning low, the room still heavy with Tatiana’s perfume.

Even in death, she lingered a ghost of her own making. The press called it suicide. I called it a cleanup.

She had outlived her purpose.

And purpose, once spent, becomes a liability.

Across the room, Marlowe paced like a dog that knew it had done wrong.

The rain ...