Leon stood before the gates of the Norman estate, his gaze lingering on the modest, crumbling facade. Ever since Olivia had leveled that chilling look at him—the one that flared when he dared ask about Isabella—his heart had been a frantic drum against his ribs. A primal instinct clawed at his throat; he knew, with a sickening certainty, that something had befallen his wife.
The garden was a testament to neglect, a wild, choking sprawl where nature had reclaimed its territory. No hand had pruned the shaggy trees or shorn the overgrown grass in months.
Even for a fallen noble, the desolation was unnatural. Leon reached for the brass handle, but the door remained stubbornly locked. Stepping back, he channeled his desperation into a single, violent kick. The wood groaned and gave way, slamming against the floor with a hollow boom that echoed through the skeletal remains of the manor.
