The next morning,
The Lancaster mansion stood like a statement of glass and marble, as if declaring it had always been there and would always remain.
Inside, the east breakfast room was pristine. Sunlight spilled across the polished floor, catching the silverware and tall vases of fresh hydrangeas. The scent of brewed coffee, citrus, and warm bread lingered like an offering.
Isabella was already at the table. She had arranged everything herself that morning, sliced fruit in crystal bowls, omelets folded to perfection, a newspaper folded beside Edward's seat, and fresh croissants layered in a basket.
But the moment Alaric walked in, she went quiet. She wasn't cold, but didn't know what to say. She wasn't used to showing emotions around her son. Not the soft ones, at least.
"Ric... I was waiting for you," Edward greeted, his voice warm as he folded his reading glasses and set aside his business newspaper.
Alaric took the seat to the left of Edward, opposite Isabella.
