But Charles didn’t come alone. He came with baggage wrapped in silk. His three adult children looked at the world like it owed them interest payments on a debt they never incurred.
Lucas, the eldest, was polished and calculating, his eyes always assessing value. Sabrina was perfectly groomed, her poise a weapon, her gaze constantly roving over my furniture, my art, my life. And Andrew, the youngest, was quieter, softer spoken, but watchful—a silent sentinel waiting for a command.
Their smiles were warm enough. Their hugs were polite. But their questions were surgical.
