The grand Whitmore estate hadn't looked this alive in years.
Every chandelier was lit, casting soft golden light across the marbled floors. Fresh lilies adorned the foyer. Staff buzzed through the halls like anxious bees, all in preparation for one event: Cecelia's welcome home dinner.
The dining room, long and imposing, had been set with the family's finest china—gold-rimmed plates and crystal stemware polished until they gleamed like glass stars.
Cecelia entered with her usual poise, her heels silent on the polished floor. Her posture was straight, expression serene. Controlled. Always.
But even she blinked in surprise when a familiar voice echoed from across the room.
"Lia!"
Her father, Bennett Whitmore, stood at the far end of the room. On his feet.
The man who had barely stepped out of bed for more than five minutes these past few years now moved toward her with surprising energy, leaning only slightly on his cane. His wife rushed to his side to steady him, though the wide grin on his face said he wouldn't be stopped.
"My little girl's home," he said with a tremor in his voice, wrapping her in a gentle, almost cautious hug. "Look at you—still so calm, so grown. You haven't changed at all."
"I have," Cecelia replied softly, stepping back. "But it's nice to hear you say that."
Mrs. Whitmore clapped her hands with delight. "Come, come—sit down. Dinner is almost ready. Your father has been nagging the chefs all day."
"Only because they kept putting rosemary in everything," Mr. Whitmore muttered as he guided her to the head of the table, right beside his seat.
The door swung open.
Alden and Callum sauntered in, dressed in casual black, hair still tousled, the faint coppery scent of dried blood clinging to their collars. Their arrival shifted the mood slightly.
Cecelia's eyes narrowed, subtle but sharp. She didn't say a word, but her gaze followed them with quiet scrutiny.
They noticed.
"You smell like murder," she said simply.
Callum lifted both hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Not guilty. Probably."
But before Cecelia could say anything more, their father snapped his head in their direction.
"You reek of trouble," Mr. Whitmore barked. "Go shower. I won't have my daughter's first dinner home tainted by the scent of delinquency. Go."
Alden chuckled, unbothered. "We're just adding a bit of seasoning to the evening."
Callum winked and nudged his brother toward the stairs. "Don't worry, sister. Brother will be back shortly."
Cecelia didn't flinch. She simply turned back to her wine glass, swirled the red liquid slowly, and sipped.
Her eyes, half-lidded, were unreadable.
The table quieted for a moment, filled only with the clinking of silverware and soft jazz playing in the background.
The clatter of forks against porcelain and the soft hum of polite conversation resumed after the twins' brief disappearance. Cecelia remained largely silent, answering her mother's chattering questions with the occasional nod or dry remark. She took slow sips of her wine, each taste more about ritual than pleasure.
It wasn't long before the rhythmic thud of footsteps returned. Callum and Alden descended the grand staircase, this time clean and freshly changed—Callum with his damp hair slicked back, Alden's sleeves rolled to his elbows, both smelling faintly of sandalwood and expensive cologne instead of blood and metal.
"You both shower like the building's on fire," Cecelia said dryly as they took their seats again.
"We run a tight schedule," Alden grinned, stealing a piece of bread from the center plate. "Time is money, baby sister."
"You should try it sometime," Callum added with a smirk. "Spending it, I mean. Living. Instead of reading those morbid journals you keep hidden under your bed."
Cecelia raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall giving you access to my room."
Alden let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, let's not poke the dragon."
Their father leaned back in his seat, folding his hands together. His expression was light, but the sharpness in his gaze hadn't dulled. "Enough teasing."
" Let's talk real business. What's the situation with Virex Holdings, shall we start there?" Callum asked.
Alden straightened. "Secured. We locked down the mining contract in Malaysia. The board is happy. We're preparing the final paperwork."
"And the off-shore account?" Mr. Whitmore asked, his voice low.
Callum answered, just as calmly, "Cleansed and wired. No trace left. Everything's running through the shell company in Prague now."
Cecelia glanced between them, her expression unreadable. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
Just as Callum leaned forward to speak again, ready to get into the darker, less reportable side of their affairs, Mr. Whitmore's face contorted suddenly. He coughed once, then twice—wet, hacking sounds that echoed unnaturally loud in the elegant dining hall.
"Father?" Alden stood up.
The coughing intensified. His hand pressed against his chest, his other gripping the edge of the table.
"Ben!" Mrs. Whitmore rushed to his side, her voice cracking with alarm. "Call the doctor, now!"
"No—" Mr. Whitmore wheezed between fits, waving a hand. "Just… just help me upstairs."
Callum moved quickly, throwing his father's arm over his shoulder while Alden supported his other side.
"We've got you, old man," Alden murmured. "Don't worry. You'll be fine."
Mrs. Whitmore scurried ahead to open the path as they helped their father out of the room and up the long staircase, leaving Nathaniel, Cecelia and Dawn behind at the now-silent table.
Cecelia sat motionless.
Dawn's gaze flickered toward her.
"You didn't even flinch," she said softly, almost like an observation.
Cecelia finally set down her wine glass, the stem clicking lightly against the table.
"He's had scar tissue in his lungs since before I left," she said, voice cool and devoid of panic. "If he made it this far, he'll be fine tonight."
Dawn set her fork down with a little more force than necessary.
"That's still your father, you know," she said, her voice clipped, her eyes fixed on the now-vacant head of the table.
Nathaniel turned to her gently, concern softening his expression. "Dawn—"
"How I handle my relationship with my father is quite frankly, none of your business, Dawn."
Dawn gripped the wine glass in her hand tightly, "I just-"
"Stay out of my business and I will stay out of yours, deal?"
Dawn forced out a breath, swallowing the sharp words rising to her throat. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."
Nathaniel squeezed her hand. "Cece, can you please let it go? Dawn has been under alot of pressure recently at the law firm so she sometimes does things she didn't mean to."
The moment passed, but the air in the room felt heavier.
Cecelia spoke, her voice smooth and cool. "It's fine."
Dawn opened her mouth and then shut it. The tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch crossed her lips before she turned her head away, brushing invisible lint off her napkin.
Nathaniel smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Well. That was tense. Should I bring dessert, or will we all just pretend this is normal and move on?"
Cecelia stood up slowly, straightening her blouse. "I'm going to check on Mother and Father."
As she exited the room with quiet grace, the hem of her silk top brushing the polished floor, Dawn sat unmoving in her chair. Her fingers curled around the napkin in her lap until the white fabric wrinkled between her fists.