The resolution on the security feed was 4K. Crystal clear. Unforgiving. Evelyn Conway sat in the high-backed leather chair of her private study, the glow of the iPad illuminating her face in the dim room. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her Pinot Noir. It was a vintage she usually saved for victories, but tonight, she needed it for anesthesia. On the screen, two figures were entangled on the antique mahogany desk in the library downstairs. One was her son, Felix. Her heir. The twenty-two-year-old boy she had groomed to take over Conway-Fernandez Global. He was currently wearing a hoodie that cost more than a Honda Civic, yet he looked like he hadn’t showered in three days. The other figure was Angela. The housekeeper’s daughter. Evelyn watched, her expression unmoving, as Angela’s hand—adorned with a bracelet Evelyn recognized as missing from her own jewelry box last week—swept a stack of first-edition Dickens novels onto the floor to make more room. Felix didn't even flinch at the sound of the books hitting the hardwood. He was too busy burying his face in Angela’s neck, murmuring things the high-gain microphone picked up with nauseating clarity. "I hate this place, baby," Felix groaned, his voice muffled against Angela’s cheap polyester blouse. "It’s a prison. A golden cage. Only you make me feel... real." Angela pulled back, framing his face with her hands. She looked at him