The nursery was the only truly quiet room in the house, yet it held the deepest tension. It was vast, intentionally designed to be a haven of pale silks and soft lighting, overlooking a silent, snow-dusted garden. But the peace was a lie. It was a holding pattern around Isabella’s grief.

I stood by the threshold, my shoulder braced against the cool stone frame, observing. This was my role now: the perpetual sentinel. I could command armies, freeze global markets, and tear down steel with my ...