Elliot's POV
That night changed everything.
He wasn't falling. He was remembering.
As the noose tightened around his throat, his world didn't go black—it flared with light. Blinding, searing memories erupted behind his eyes. Not the corridor. Not Franz. Not the blood soaking the marble floor.
No.
He was back in the study, Smoke in the air. His mother's lifeless body slumped on the Persian rug. Her white blouse soaked in red. Her eyes—still open. And his father—Henry Ardent—stood frozen beside her, the pistol shaking in his hand.
It was an accident.
He hadn't meant to pull the trigger. He hadn't even realized the safety was off. They had been arguing—screaming—and she lunged, slapped him, grabbed the barrel—and it went off.
Henry collapsed to his knees beside her.
"God... no, no, no. Margaret—"
He held her, sobbing. Blood stained his hands. His screams tore through the mansion. Elliot had run in moments later. Frozen in the doorway.
Then the guards arrived.
