Henry Whitmore had learned to sit very still. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deliberate, though his mind remained sharp and restless. To the outside world, he appeared to be a fragile magnate nearing the end of his life. He rested in a deep plum armchair inside his Norchester estate, a mansion where quiet hallways echoed with wealth and suspicion.
Henry had built shipping empires, luxury resorts, and technology ventures. He owned more than most people could imagine. Yet there was one thing he no longer possessed.
Trust.
People whispered about his fortune and waited for him to grow weak enough to take it. His grown nieces spoke more about inheritance than affection. Former partners smiled politely while calculating his decline. Even staff had betrayed him—silverware gone missing, rare wine bottles quietly replaced with cheaper ones.
Henry believed one simple truth: if given the chance, people would take.
Rain tapped against the stained-glass windows of the library. The fireplace crackled softly. On the walnut table beside his chair, Henry placed an open envelope stuffed with cash.
Five thousand dollars.
Careless. Obvious. A trap.
Then he waited.