For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Damian stood near the window, framed by the thin wash of morning light. His reflection hovered in the glass like a ghost of a man who had spent too many years building walls no one could climb.

I sat on the edge of the couch, my hands clenched together. “Start talking,” I said. “No more riddles.”

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. “Do you remember the scholarship you received before you joined Vance Couture?”

I nodded cautiously. ...