I looked back toward the darkening terrace. He weaponized my mourning to forge a lock. My father, Arthur Vance, had passed away a mere six months prior. Julian had rapidly deduced that grieving people possess slower reflexes. He shuffled critical board appointments while I penned eulogies. He overhauled the estate’s security apparatus while I sat motionless beside my father’s empty leather armchair, struggling to comprehend how the most formidable titan of industry I knew had been reduced to an urn of ash.
A nearly imperceptible click from the balcony door severed my thoughts.
A tall, lean figure vaulted over the wrought-iron railing with the calculated grace of someone who had memorized the blind spots of every security camera on the property. My son, Leo Sterling, stepped out of the coastal fog into the bedroom. He wore a midnight-black jacket, soundless sneakers, and the exact, chillingly flat expression his grandfather used when a hostile takeover was already finalized.
