Not because I was hiding.
Because the press had begun gathering near the front entrance.
Adrian was not famous in the way actors were famous, but in our city, money had its own gossip columns. Vale Capital sponsored galas, museums, charity auctions, and political dinners. Adrian had cultivated an image for years: brilliant founder, devoted husband, self-made visionary.
A man like that did not expect his wife to bleed publicly.
He expected silence.
My parents brought me and the boys to their estate outside the city.
Ashford House had once belonged to my grandfather, then my mother restored it after the fire that destroyed the east wing when I was twelve. It stood behind iron gates and miles of old trees, a pale stone mansion with ivy crawling over the library windows and security cameras hidden beneath copper lanterns.
As we passed through the gates, Noah started crying.
Then Leo.
