Arthur Becker

The grand halls of the Becker estate were a maze of polished marble and gilded portraits, each room echoing with faint music and the hum of distant laughter from the ballroom downstairs. She had only meant to find the library, Benedict had asked her to fetch his phone, claiming he'd left it between the pages of some leather-bound antique. But the Becker mansion was far larger than she’d imagined, with its endless corridors and doors that all looked the same.

Her heels clicked timidly across the herringbone floor as she pushed open another door, this one heavier than the rest. The room was dim, lit only by a single green-shaded desk lamp and the flicker of the fireplace. Rows of dark books lined the walls. It wasn't the library—but a study. Private. Quiet. She knew she shouldn’t be there.

She turned to leave, but a voice, low and refined, cut through the silence.

“You’re not one of Benedict’s usual guests.”

She froze.

From behind the desk, a man stood. He was older than Benedict by several years, tall, dressed in a dark waistcoat, a crystal glass in one hand. He looked like he belonged to the room. His gaze was sharp, assessing yet oddly calm.