"You came back?" Xavier's voice cut across the stairwell, cool and flat. "I did," I said, stepping into the light that spilled down the steps. Rain stitched my coat to my skin. The valet hovered with an umbrella as if I were a trophy he needed to polish. "Leave the umbrella," Xavier called. "You'll track mud into the foyer." "I can handle mud," I told him. "I can handle more than you think." A servant murmured something behind me. A guard straightened like he'd been struck. Footsteps clicked on marble. "Your parents sent you," Xavier said. He sounded amused. "As a favor. Or as a bargaining chip." "Don't make business of family grief," I said. "You used to be better at not pretending to care." He laughed once. No warmth. "Pretend? That's your word for every interaction I've ever had with you. You show up, smile, give the right lines, and expect someone to gasp and hand you a contract." "Your vocabulary needs a refresh," I returned. "Grief doesn't come with terms." "You think you can teach the Larssons morality?" He took one step down, hands in his pockets. "You think you can teach me." "Maybe I can teach you to stop touching other people's borders," I said. He stopped two steps away. The house seemed to hold its breath. "You used to say that with a different edge," he said, and his hand moved before his mouth could finish the sentence