Caleb The Lancaster mansion hadn’t looked this alive in years. By six, the house was filled, laughter echoing down the marble corridors. It was my Dad’s birthday, Malcolm Lancaster, patriarch of a family that had built an empire out of law and cold ambition. He’d insisted on a “modest” celebration, which for him meant 100 people, imported wine, and two orchestras alternating in shifts. The rest of us, his sons, his relatives, the ghosts who carried his name, played our parts. I stood near the bar, nursing a drink I hadn’t touched, watching people arrive. Uncle Mike came first, booming like he owned the room. His wife, Aunt Margaret, followed, all diamonds and glammed up. Then came Aunt Olivia, Mrs Lancaster’s sister, who never missed a chance to stir up the past. Cousins and second cousins, the ones who only visited when cameras or inheritance were involved, they were all here. “Caleb!” Uncle Mike’s voice hit before I even saw him. He pushed through the crowd and clapped
ปรับปรุงล่าสุด : 2025-10-29 อ่านเพิ่มเติม