Malcolm Greyford had learned to sit very still. His eyes were closed and his breath moved in slow and heavy rhythms, yet his mind wandered briskly. The world believed him to be a frail magnate nearing the last chapter of his life. He sat curled in a deep plum armchair inside his estate in Norchester, a place where quiet hallways held the weight of his fortune. He had built shipping firms, resorts, and technology lines. He had more comforts than he could count. However, he lacked one precious thing. Trust.

People whispered about Malcolm’s wealth and waited for him to grow too weak to protect it. His grown nieces spoke of inheritances rather than affection, and his former colleagues watched him with polished smiles but ruthless intentions. Even staff had betrayed him before, sneaking away silver trinkets or bottles of expensive wine. Malcolm had begun to believe that every person would grab what they could if their actions went unseen.

Outside the library, rain hammered against stained glass. Inside, the fire crackled in a patient sort of way. On a walnut table by his chair, Malcolm placed an open envelope thick with bills. Five thousand dollars. He wanted the bait to look tempting and misplaced. Then he waited.

The door squeaked softly and a young maid named Brianna stepped inside, her son trailing close behind her. Brianna had only served at Greyford Manor for a month. She was weary from juggling debt and a small boy while trying to keep her position. The storm had shut down the local school, leaving her desperate for help. She begged the head housekeeper, Ms. Dudley, to let her bring her child just for the day.

Milo walked to the old armchair and set the toy on the table beside it.

“Safe now,” he said softly.

And he meant it.