By the time Declan returned home that evening, he looked like a man who had aged five years in a single afternoon. His tie was loosened, his jacket was draped haphazardly over his arm, and the manic energy of his morning panic had been replaced by a hollow, exhausted desperation.

Sloane was sittin

Sloane Kensington sat at the small kitchen island of her childhood home, a steaming cup of tea in her uninjured hand, while her phone rested on speaker. The morning sun streamed through the window, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the domestic quiet.

"The dominoes have officially begun to fall,

By the time Declan burst through the front door of their suburban home, he was a hurricane of misplaced rage and desperation. He slammed the door so hard the framed photographs in the hallway rattled against the drywall.

"Sloane!" he bellowed, tearing off his muddy jacket and throwing it onto the