It was a quiet morning at Society. The soft clinking of china, the mellow jazz humming through the speakers, and the subdued conversations gave the place its usual calm. But Amy Lewis could sense something was off. Sitting across from her was her son, Damian Cain — tall, sharp in a dark shirt, composed as always — but there was a heaviness in his eyes.

Damian had always been a storm in Amy’s life — wild, brilliant, unpredictable. But over the years, he had become the man she was proud to call her son. A detective by nature, a fixer by trade, he had a reputation for walking into messes and walking out with the truth. This time, however, the case was different.

He was flying to France that afternoon, summoned to meet a client he had worked for over several months — Aristotle Dumas. A powerful businessman, Dumas had remained entirely in the shadows. No photographs. No Zoom meetings. No voice calls. Nothing. Everything was done through intermediaries. And that, to Amy, was more than suspicious.

“That’s a red flag wrapped in smoke,” she said quietly, sipping her tea. Damian gave a slight smile but didn’t answer. He didn’t need to — they both knew he was going anyway. That was who he was.

The plane ride was smooth, the landing quiet. Damian stepped onto the lush, manicured grounds of Château Dumas — a grand estate that seemed more like a fortress than a home. The sun was beginning to dip behind the hills, casting long shadows across the stone walls. A butler greeted him in silence and led him inside.

Everything about the castle was heavy — the furniture, the curtains, even the silence. Damian noticed the absence of something: people. No staff moved about, no sound echoed except his own footsteps. The butler disappeared without a word. And then, finally, in a dimly lit study, he met the man.

Aristotle Dumas.

An older gentleman in a velvet robe, pale as marble, with eyes that studied Damian like a predator would a worthy opponent. He was polite, soft-spoken even, but there was an edge in his tone. Damian had been brought here for a final task — one Dumas refused to put in writing.

It was a murder. Or at least, something close to it.

Dumas had enemies, secrets, a legacy built on things best left buried. And he needed someone like Damian to clean up what couldn’t be exposed.

Damian didn’t flinch, but inside, something shifted. This was no longer just a job. It was a test. A trap. A confession.

As the night deepened and storms gathered beyond the castle walls, Damian found himself tangled in a web of old family feuds, hidden passageways, and unspeakable truths. Dumas was not just a client — he was the orchestrator of a legacy built on fear, silence, and manipulation.

And by morning, someone would die.

Back at Society, Amy waited. Her tea long cold, her eyes on the door that wouldn’t open.

Because she knew.

Whatever had begun in that castle — would not end well.