He set them on the desk and left quietly, closing the door behind him.

I sat down in the leather chair behind the desk.

It felt too big for me, but as I opened the first folder, the feeling began to fade.

The columns of numbers and shipping routes were complicated, but they were logical.

They were far simpler than the lies and secrets I had been navigating at Mercer House.

For the next three hours, I worked.

Julian sat in a chair across from me, answering my questions about port fees, union contracts, and fuel surcharges.

He didn’t patronize me; he explained things clearly and waited for me to understand.

By the time we left the office, the sun was setting, casting a dull orange glow over the frozen lake.

The drive back to the mansion was warmer, the silence between us comfortable.

When we arrived, the black vans were gone.

The grand driveway was clear, the snow freshly plowed.

I walked into the house and was greeted by the smell of baking bread.

Emma came running down the hallway, her small boots clicking on the marble.