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Which is absurd, considering there’s nothing unremarkable about Theo. He might as well be carved from myth, and pretending otherwise feels almost offensive.

“Lila,” he muses. “My mother failed to mention you’d be visiting.”

“Yes.” I am curt, fighting off the urge to roll my eyes. “We’re here to spend time with Emily for the week.”

Then, without hesitation, I grab Theo by the hem of his sleeve and unceremoniously yank him closer to my side in what is absolutely not an act of petty defiance.

Theo, caught off guard, stumbles just slightly before begrudgingly wrapping an arm around my shoulders in what can only be described as the most awkward and reluctant display of affection in human history.

Baryn watches the whole thing with thinly veiled amusement before finally pushing himself off the doorframe, strolling into the room like he owns the place—which, to be fair, he kind of does.

“My cousin is grief-stricken,” he announces, rolling his eyes so hard I’m honestly amazed they don’t get lodged in his skull.

I process that.

What the actual fuck?

He’s always been a smartass, but this crosses the line from sarcasm to sociopathy.

He leans in close, words barely audible, his lips curled in a way that makes me itch to punch him in his pretty face.

“We don’t do grief here, sweetheart,” he says evenly, faux-conspiratorial. “We do press statements, inheritance disputes, and thinly veiled death threats over brunch.”

The silence isn’t shock. It’s routine. Waiting for his next absurdity.

“Bear—cut the shit, you douche canoe,” Emily says from the settee, slightly monotonous, but the words hit their target anyway.

My eyes briefly flick over to her before snapping back to Baryn. “Maybe that’s true for you. But Emily’s actually capable of human emotion. So forgive her if she’s not keeping up with the family traditions of asset management and passive-aggressive homicide threats over eggs Benedict in the wake of her mother’s death.”

His smirk falters, but only for a split second before it stretches wider. “Well,” he says. “Aren’t you a feisty little thing today?”

The face I make at him is something a smart-ass sixth grader would pull—somewhere between a squint and a grimace, just shy of sticking my tongue out.

Mature? No. But I never claimed to be.

Emily stands and clears her throat, an insistent little sound that cuts him off before he can take it any further. She’s clearly used to stepping in, an expert at rerouting Baryn before he goes a step too far. Then she turns to us, her tone gentler. “I’ll show you two to your room.”

I nod, eager to put space between us and the Mayfair brand of dysfunction. I move to grab my bag, but before my fingers even skim the handle, Theo is already there, plucking it up.

“Stop,” Evelyn says crisply from her chair. “I’ll have the butler carry those up.” She speaks louder without even bothering to turn her head. “Giles!”

Theo shakes his head, already moving toward the door. “There’s no need.”

Evelyn tsks softly, like he’s just guaranteed his own doom. “Suit yourself. But you’ll wound his pride. Giles takes household order very seriously.”

As I turn to follow, something catches my eye.

Just beneath the heavy, gleaming railing of the grand staircase.

The rug, just slightly askew—not enough that anyone would notice at a glance, but enough that it doesn’t quite sit right.

A picture frame, a fraction of an inch out of place, the angle just slightly off from the others lining the wall.

Small, almost imperceptible details. But enough.

The exact spot where Victoria Mayfair’s life ended with the brutal tug of a garrote.

Something in my stomach tightens.