The security alarm that had wailed through the estate suddenly cut out, replaced by a terrifying silence. The digital lock on the private elevator–codes known only to the family–chirped green.
William Croft stood in the center of the living room, his body acting as a physical barricade between the elevator doors and the piano bench where Victoria and Leo sat frozen.
The doors slid open.
Alistair Croft stepped out. He was not the frail ghost of memory, nor the corpse they had buried a decade ago. He was older, his hair silver, but he stood with the imposing posture of a Titan. He wore a bespoke suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, looking nothing like a man who had been dead for ten years.
Leo whimpered, sensing the shift in the room’s air pressure.
Alistair’s eyes, cold and predatory, swept over the room. He didn’t look at his son with love; he looked at him with assessment.
“Hello, son,” Alistair said, his voice a smooth, low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. He glanced at the piano, then at the modern art on the walls. “You’ve changed the decor. It’s a bit… sentimental for a CEO.”