The air in Styler's apartment remained thick with the scent of confrontation, though the woman herself had long since fled. George Virjon stood in the center of the living room, his knuckles white as he leaned heavily on his silver-topped cane. He looked around the space—the books on anatomy, the framed photos of her medical graduation—and felt a wave of cold, calculated disgust. To him, this room didn't represent a daughter's success; it represented a rebellion he had failed to quell.
He pulled his phone from his breast pocket and dialed a number with sharp, stabbing motions. It was answered on the first ring by a voice that was just as brittle and polished as his own: Miriam Virjon, Styler's mother.
"George? Is she with you? Did you settle this nonsense about her missing the gala?" Miriam's voice crackled through the speaker, layered with the background noise of a high-end charity function in London.
