The silence in the boardroom was the sort only power could buy.

There were twelve individuals seated at the table, collectively valued higher than a couple of small countries' combined GDP, but not one of them came close to taking a loud breath. Not when I was in the room.

I liked it like that way.

I enjoyed the silence. The tight control. The knowledge that at any moment, I could raze what we'd built and replace it with something greater. Thornwell Tech had started in a Harvard dorm room, but now it stood on the cutting edge of biosecurity, data protection, and innovation. Investors told us we were invulnerable.

Because I made sure we were.

"Merge with Kaizen?" I said bluntly, tapping the file on my desk. "Absolutely not."

The silence thickened.

Devon Vale, seated to my right, cracked a knuckle under the table—his one tell. "They're losing leverage. Give us three more weeks, and they'll crawl back."

I gave a slow, faint nod. "Exactly. Let them bleed. Then we jump in and buy the place at half the price."

Someone coughed on my left. I didn’t bother looking to see who.

"Meeting adjourned," I said.

As the room emptied, Devon remained behind, his usual half-grin on his face.

"You enjoy frightening grown men," he said, adjusting his cufflinks.

"They enjoy being reminded of who signs their bonus checks."

He chuckled. "A true fact. Still—remind me never to play cards with you."

"I don't bluff."

"Exactly."

I walked toward the glass wall of my corner office, the skyline of Palo Alto gleaming outside. Everything in here was glassy and sleek. Nothing soft. Nothing Southern.

I'd damn well made sure of it.

"You're leaving tomorrow?" Devon asked, moving to stand beside me at the window.

I nodded once. "Savannah."

"You sure you want to open up that estate again?"

My jaw clenched. "It's time."

He didn't press. Devon knew better than anyone what the Thornwell estate represented. It wasn't property. It was history. Ghosts. The place I'd once called home — before it had become the graveyard for every last shred of my youth.

"You’ll be seeing your mother?" he asked lightly.

"Unfortunately."

Devon winced. "Well, I'll put your therapist on hold."

Twelve hours later – Savannah, Georgia

The humidity was the first thing I noticed.

California had pampered me. The Southern air clung to my skin like a clingy ex— hot, humid, and unwilling to let go.

As the black SUV passed through the Thornwell gates, I kept my eyes fixed ahead. The ride was curved just as it always was. Magnolia trees towered above like ancient, disapproving gods.

The house appeared on the horizon.

Still monstrous. Still perfect.

Still haunted.

I did not look toward the stables.

I did not glance across at the rows of old trees where we would slip away. Where I would kiss her until we hadn't a clue who we were even supposed to be anymore.

I clenched my fists.

At home, my mother was already waiting, seated in her sunroom as though she hadn't aged a day. There were pearl earrings, a crisped cream dress, and the exact same look of coached disappointment she'd been employing since I was thirteen.

"Cassian," she replied, rising to press a kiss on my cheek. "You look worn down."

"Just work," I replied. “Nothing much.”

She filled my cup with tea I wouldn’t drink and crossed one elegantly turned leg over the other. "I suppose you've come to begin the campaign then?"

"I've come to begin the restoration. The campaign follows."

"Face is everything, Cassian. If you want that legacy spot on the Thornwell board, you'll do better than scrubbed wood and salvaged tiles."

"I've got the votes sewn up already."

"Not all of them. There are rumors."

"ANd doyou think I care, mother?”

She took her tea slowly, not answering my question. "You need a wife."

I looked up.

She gave me a thin smile. "Don't gawk at me as if I've grown an extra head. We both know how this works. Family men build dynasties. Solos are hounded by the press. You have power. You have wealth. But you don't have stability."

"Marriage is not stability. It's merely paperwork built to hold you down."

"Optics," she said serenely. "And if you want the chairmanship after the IPO—"

"I'll have it. With or without a ring."

Her smile faltered not at all. "You're your father's son. Arrogant to a fault."

"He died bankrupt."

"He died respected."

I leaned forward. "And I've taken what he nearly destroyed. I'm not going to play games with some socialite so the press can pat me on the head and give me a gold star."

My mother didn't flinch. Not once. "You always did get angry when she came up."

My expression remained the same. "Who?"

"Little maid's daughter. What was her name, again?"

She knew precisely what her name was.

I rose, not even taking the time to respond, which was likely best. "Cassian."

I turned back around.

"Don't mistake survival for strength. Even you, you have weaknesses. Don't let them rule over you."

I didn't respond. Just walked away and slammed the door a little too hard.

At my hotel, Devon had already drawn out a virtual map of the estate plans on the tablet.

"I contacted five companies," he said to me. "We got one standout."

He handed it over.

I read the screen. Moreno & Delgado Interiors. West Coast firm. Up-and-comers. Women-owned.

"I've heard of them," I muttered.

"Small but mighty. Their aesthetic is right for the brief. Restoration of a historical feel with a touch of modernity."

"Fine. Book a walkthrough for next week."

"Already did. They arrive tomorrow."

I placed the tablet on the bed and lay back.

My throat was dry, the kind of dry that only history leaves you with.

Devon hesitated. "Want to know who's leading the project?"

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere deep and feral inside me, I already did.

"No," I said curtly.

"Too bad," he said. "It's Belle Moreno."