The doors parted with a low hiss as Gillian Henderson — in a brown suit with his long hair tied to a bun — stepped into the high-ceilinged chamber. Everything in the room gleamed — polished mahogany floors, deep velvet curtains, and an overhead chandelier dripping with crystal.
The walls were lined with silent, golden-framed portraits of men who had long ruled from behind curtains.
The Hendersons.
They were from old money. The oldest of it, changing their family name with the flow of time. And now, in the modern world, they had a more quiet wealth — the kind that never needed to announce itself.
In the center of this room sat Donald Henderson, reclined in a leather armchair near a tall oxygen stand.
A silk blanket draped over his legs, though his frame still looked sharply cut in his tailored suit. His skin was pale beneath the amber lighting, but his eyes were anything but weak.
He looked up as his son approached, a tired smile ghosting his lips.
"You're late."
