Eline did not sleep properly that night.
It wasn't fear—not exactly. It was the aftertaste of being noticed. The kind that lingered on the skin long after the presence itself had gone.
The book stayed where he had left it, hidden beneath stacked ledgers and false-bottom shelves. He did not dare touch it again. Not because he feared punishment—but because he understood, instinctively, that some things remembered being handled.
Morning arrived quietly.
The house functioned as it always had—silent corridors, polished stone, footsteps measured to obedience. But now Eline moved through it differently.
He watched.
The men were all there. He knew that much.
The dining hall was already occupied.
Eline realized that the moment he stepped in with the cloth folded over his wrist. Five men sat at the long table, their presence filling the room so completely that it felt foolish he had even crossed the threshold.
He lowered his eyes immediately.
This was not the place to linger.
Without a word, he backed away, footsteps measured, careful not to draw attention. His task could wait. Tasks always waited when masters were present.
He took the side stairs instead.
From the first floor, there was a narrow stretch where the railing opened just enough to look down into the dining hall without being seen—if one was careful. Eline sat on the step, half-hidden by shadow and carved stone, his back pressed lightly against the wall.
He watched.
Not openly. Never openly.
This was not curiosity. It was confirmation.
He knew only one of them.
Lucian.
Ellen sat on the stair two steps above the ground floor, the cloth folded uselessly in his hands. From here, he could see the dining room without being seen—or at least, he hoped so. The angle was narrow, the banister casting a shadow that cut his body in half. He kept his breathing shallow, like he had learned in this house.
Five men sat at the table.
Not speaking much. Not eating much either.
The first thing that struck him was not their faces—it was the space around them. As if the room itself had learned to accommodate them, stretching subtly, respectfully. Chairs placed farther apart than necessary. Cutlery aligned with obsessive precision. Even silence seemed arranged.
Five billionaires, the man had said.
The oldest one sits like he owns the room. You'll know him when you see him.
Ellen's gaze went, instinctively, to the man at the center.
He was the tallest, though not by much. Broad-shouldered, straight-backed, his presence heavy in a way that had nothing to do with size. He didn't lean into the table; the table leaned into him. His hair was darker than the others, combed back with care that suggested habit, not vanity. When he lifted his glass, the others paused—not consciously, perhaps, but noticeably.
Carlson.
Eline swallowed.
The man had said Carlson was the oldest. Not just in years—in authority. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice because the world already listened. Watching him now, Ellen understood. Carlson didn't look around the room. He didn't need to. Everything that mattered was already within his line of control.
Calculating. Ruthless, but not impulsive. A man who survives by patience.
The description fit too well. It unsettled him.
To Carlson's right sat the one Ellen already knew.
Lucien.
He didn't need memory for that one. Lucien was unmistakable. He sat slightly angled away from the table, one arm resting loose, fingers relaxed, as if he were bored by the act of eating altogether. His expression was blank—not cold, not warm—simply uninterested. But there was something sharp in the way his eyes tracked movement, like a blade half-hidden under silk.
The man had warned him about Lucien.
He won't speak to you. If he looks at you, look away. If he ignores you, be grateful.
Lucien hadn't looked at him. Not once.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Across from Lucien sat another man—leaner, paler, his movements precise, economical. He ate slowly, methodically, as if the act required thought. His gaze flicked occasionally toward Carlson, not for permission, but acknowledgment.
Alaric.
Ellen remembered the description: the watcher. Not loud. Not cruel in obvious ways. Dangerous because he noticed things others missed. Now, seeing him in motion—or rather, in restraint—Ellen felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. Alaric didn't dominate the room. He measured it.
Next to him was a man who barely moved at all.
Severin.
If the others commanded space, Severin withdrew from it. His posture was immaculate, spine straight, hands resting symmetrically on the table when not in use. He didn't rush. He didn't linger. Every motion looked rehearsed, perfected long ago. His face was calm, but not gentle—like stone polished smooth by centuries of erosion.
The man had described him as severe. Stern. Unforgiving.
Ellen thought: This is the kind of man who would destroy you quietly and sleep well afterward.
The last one sat at the far end.
Darian.
If Ellen hadn't been warned, he might have mistaken him for the most human of them all. He leaned back slightly, one ankle resting casually over the other knee. His expression was almost relaxed, lips curved faintly as if amused by some private thought. He spoke once—just a sentence—and when he did, the others listened.
Not because he was loud.
Because he chose when to speak.
The man had said Darian adapted easily. Blended. The kind who could walk into any room and belong there within minutes. Watching him now, Ellen understood the danger of that ease. It wasn't softness—it was camouflage.
Five men.
Five different kinds of control.
Ellen's fingers tightened around the cloth.
The man hadn't told him everything. But he'd told him enough.
And sitting there on the stairs, heart ticking unevenly in his chest, Ellen realized something with cold clarity:
He wasn't just in a house owned by billionaires.
He was inside a system—old, disciplined, and merciless.
And every one of them already belonged to it.