Meanwhile, in a different part of the city.
The Grayson Mansion stood tall on the northern ridge of the city, framed by stone walls, steel gates, and trimmed hedges pretending to be regal.
On the outside, it looked impressive—polished glass windows, imported tiles, heavy chandeliers.
But inside?
The tension was heavier than any decoration.
In the main study, the heavy doors closed with a soft click. Inside, five men stood in silence.
One was seated behind a dark wood desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The other four stood before him—his sons.
Mr. Grayson tapped the side of his chair once.
Then again.
And again.
His eyes were cold.
"Do any of you have anything to say for yourselves?"
No one answered.
The air was stiff. Dry. Uncomfortable.
The eldest son, Vincent Grayson, finally raised his chin slightly. His face was sharp, his suit tailored perfectly, and his presence once used to carry weight in the business world.
Now, not so much.
