At that same moment, across the city, far from the café and cozy ambience, the Whitmore estate loomed like a fortress.
A mansion of cold stone and towering windows perched on private land lined with manicured hedges, its interior echoing old money and quiet power.
The kind of home where silence held more weight than conversation, and every object had generations of history behind it.
In the dimly lit study of the estate, Leonard Whitmore, tall, imposing, silver-haired but sharp-eyed, stood by the window, gazing out at the distant city skyline. The room was silent, save for the faint ticking of an antique clock.
Suddenly, The heavy door creaked open, and Logan Whitmore hesitantly entered.
Leonard Whitmore, patriarch of the Whitmore family, didn't turn when the door opened behind him. His gaze remained sharp, distant, dark.
"You've been quiet, Logan."
Logan swallowed hard, stepping into the study like a student summoned for punishment. "Father…"
