The clinking of crystal champagne glasses stopped dead.
A ten-year-old boy in a dirt-stained white t-shirt stood at the bottom of the grand marble steps. A fresh scratch marked his left cheek, but his posture was terrifyingly rigid.
Eleanor glared down at him from the landing, her white designer halter dress gleaming under the chandelier. She sneered, recognizing the raven hair and piercing eyes. It couldn’t be.
“My grandfather sent me,” the boy, Leo, said. His voice was chillingly calm. “This is my house.”
Eleanor let out a sharp, mocking laugh, glancing at her imposing, bald head of security, Silas, who loomed in his crisp black suit. “We don’t take beggars,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “He’s dead.”
Leo didn’t flinch. He reached out with dirty hands, offering a heavy brown envelope stamped with the Sterling family’s blood-red wax crest.
“He said you’d lie.”
Silas stepped forward, his black leather gloves creaking as he took the envelope.
“Silas, throw this trash out,” Eleanor commanded.
But Silas didn’t move. He broke the red seal. Inside wasn’t just a will—it was a black flash drive and a single photograph. Silas held the photo up. It was a crystal-clear, time-stamped surveillance image of Eleanor tampering with Alexander’s oxygen valves on the night he died.
Eleanor’s arrogant smirk vanished. A breathless, horrified gasp escaped her throat, her eyes widening in pure terror as her knees went weak.
Silas pocketed the evidence, his gaze locking onto Eleanor with cold detachment. He wasn’t her loyal security chief. He was Alexander’s phantom executor, planted years ago, waiting for the true heir to trigger the trap.
“He is the sole heir,” Silas boomed, his voice echoing through the stunned mansion. “Vacate the premises.”
Eleanor opened her mouth to scream, but the approaching wail of police sirens was already answering for her.
The king had returned.