James Bennett lay in his grand, king-sized bed, staring up at the prestigious moulding on the ceiling. The silk sheets beneath him, the ambient warmth of the room, even the faint tick of the antique clock across the suite—none of it brought him peace.
He had read Damien’s note five times. Memorised the words. Studied the handwriting. And though he would never admit it aloud, the message had carved a weight into his chest.
"Your time is up. I'm coming for you."
He tossed again, this time turning fully onto his side, his hand curling around the pillow as though strangling it might rid him of the unease crawling up his spine.
His phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.
With a grunt, James reached for it, squinting against the screen’s glow. The name lit up: Lena Bennett.
He swiped to answer. “It’s late.”
Her voice came through calm, clipped, and composed. “I thought you’d want to know. The house is fully activated.”
James sat up slowly, the sheets rustling around his waist. “Good. That to
