While Eleanor slept peacefully in her apartment, far away in a grand estate in Country X, tension filled the air.
Clara Smith stared at her phone, frustration flickering across her face as her call to her youngest daughter went unanswered. She let out a quiet sigh and glanced toward her husband, who sat rigidly in his study, his back to her.
"She must be sleeping," Clara murmured softly, careful not to provoke him.
"You can leave," Edward Smith said without turning around, his voice sharp and final. He didn't need excuses. He already knew whether Eleanor had ignored her call deliberately—and in his mind, he was certain she had.
The Smiths were a name that carried weight across the country. Their empire, Elan & Co., was known worldwide for couture designs and exquisite jewelry. Founded by Edward's grandfather, Elan Smith, and passed down through generations, the company had become synonymous with refinement, wealth, and power. But the true strength of the Smiths lay not only in their fortune—it was in the control they held. Control over business, over image, and most of all, over family.
Edward Smith was the embodiment of that control. Sharp-eyed, calculating, unyielding—a man who demanded perfection in everything, whether in the boardroom or at home. His eldest daughter, Charlotte, had once been the perfect heir in his eyes. Until she wasn't.
Charlotte Smith had run away, leaving behind divorce papers and a trail of scandal. The Smith name had weathered storms before, but this was personal. The daughter he had been proud of—the one he believed would carry the legacy forward—had defied him in the most humiliating way. If not for their long-standing alliance with the Lancaster family, Edward might have publicly disowned her just to preserve his reputation.
The Lancasters, on the other hand, were old money in every sense. Their wealth spanned centuries—built on estates, international trade, finance, and military influence. They were a family whose name alone could open doors in government corridors and exclusive boardrooms alike. Being connected to them meant stability, prestige, and power. And for Edward Smith, maintaining that alliance was just as crucial as keeping his own family in line.
Now that the bond was fractured, he had to act quickly to save what remained of his pride. It had been more than a week since Charlotte went missing, and the Lancasters had yet to release any public statement. Tomorrow, he decided, he would visit them himself. He had a plan in mind—one that could still restore his family's standing. He would not let his daughter's foolishness tarnish everything he'd built.
~~~
Across the city, in the Lancaster mansion, unease hung thick in the air.
William Lancaster paced across his study, phone in hand, frustration etched into his features. He had been trying to reach his eldest son all evening with no luck.
"William, you're making me dizzy," came a dry voice from the sofa.
Agatha Lancaster, his mother, sat gracefully in her chair, her hands clasped around a cup of tea. Her tone was calm, but the sharpness beneath it made him stop instantly.
William sighed and took a seat across from her, knowing better than to argue.
Agatha Lancaster ruled her household like an empire. After her husband's death, authority had fallen naturally into her hands—and she wielded it with quiet, iron-clad precision. Every decision in the family, from business alliances to the color of the grandchildren's rooms, went through her first.
She believed in unity—the kind that came from everyone living under one roof, eating at one table, and following one voice: hers. The Lancaster mansion wasn't merely a home; it was her kingdom, and she was its queen.
Tradition was her law, and discipline her weapon. No one in the family dared to defy her—not her children, not her grandchildren. One look from her, sharp as a blade, could silence an entire room.
Women of the Lancaster bloodline were not meant to work or chase careers. Their duty was to uphold the family's dignity—to host, to represent, to be Lancasters. Men handled the world outside; women handled the world within.
But now, the perfect order she had built was cracking. For the first time in years, the Lancaster name was being whispered in the media for all the wrong reasons. Her granddaughter-in-law had run away, and their spotless reputation was on the verge of collapse.
Agatha was furious, though she hid it well. Her anger was never loud—it was quiet, cold, suffocating. The kind that made even the bravest in the house lower their eyes. She didn't know who deserved blame more—the woman who fled, or the family that failed to stop her.
One thing, however, was certain: someone would pay for this disgrace.
She finally spoke, her tone steady but laced with authority. "Contact the media outlets tomorrow. It's time to end this nonsense."
William looked up, uncertainty flashing across his face. His son still hadn't answered any calls—not from him, not from his grandmother. It was the first time in his life that Devin Lancaster had gone completely silent.
William understood that his son must be broken, but the silence worried him more than the anger would have.
"Mother," he said quietly, "maybe we should give him a little time. He… he lost her."
Agatha set down her teacup with a soft clink. "Time," she repeated, her voice cool. "Time doesn't heal disgrace, William. Action does."
~~~
In the quiet of his penthouse, Devin Lancaster sat slumped on the edge of his couch, his tie undone, the faint smell of whiskey in the air. The city lights filtered through the curtains, painting his face in streaks of gold and shadow.
The glass in his hand was half-empty. Or maybe half-full. He couldn't tell anymore.
The divorce papers were still on the table — signed, stamped, done.
His phone buzzed again. He didn't bother checking. He knew it was his father. Or his grandmother. Or both.
He leaned back, closing his eyes as the silence pressed against his chest.
For the first time in his life, Devin Lancaster — the man who always had control, who always followed the rules — didn't know what to do.
He'd lost her. And somehow, even though she was the one who left, it still felt like his fault.
The ice in his glass melted slowly, a small crack echoing in the silence. He stared at it for a long time before muttering, almost to himself, "What a mess."
Then, with a hollow laugh, he tilted his head back and took another drink — until the city blurred, and everything finally went quiet.