Marcus never argued, but he never forgot what “blessed” looked like. Staff entrances. Invisible routes. Instructions to stay off the main grounds during family hours. The way the Kensington children looked through him instead of at him. The way rich people talked around his mother as if she were a useful appliance.
The Kensington estate covered forty-seven immaculate acres. There were fountains from Italy, a hedge maze from a magazine spread, a private pool shaped like the family crest, and a garage full of cars worth more than entire neighborhoods Marcus knew. He knew every corner of the property not because he was invited into it, but because he had spent his life studying it from the margins—through cottage windows, behind hedges, from the service corridor shadows. He knew where the cameras had blind spots and which side doors were left unsecured during shift changes. Knowledge was the only power he had.
Three months earlier, Eleanor Kensington had given birth to a son, Oliver. A photographer documented the birth. Night nurses rotated in shifts. Specialists managed every detail of his feeding, sleep, and environment. To the world, Oliver was a tiny prince born into perfection.