The silence that hung in the breakfast room felt like a physical weight. Percival's face remained perfectly composed as he met his father's calculating gaze. The question lingered in the air between them, a transparent trap disguised as generosity.
"What do I think?" Percival repeated, his tone mild. "I think it's quite the turnaround, Father. Twenty years of indifference, and now you're suddenly interested in giving my wife shares?"
He didn't miss the slight widening of Lyra's eyes at his casual claim of her. The term 'my wife' had begun to carry a different weight for him lately—one that left him feeling strangely possessive.
Atticus smiled thinly. "We all have to start somewhere with reconciliation."
"Indeed," Percival replied. He took a sip of his coffee, deliberately drawing out the moment. "I accept your offer."
