Chapter 146
Baron Rosengarde
"Ah yes, this is where he grew up."
I gesture lightly as the reporters move through my estate, their cameras flashing, their eyes scanning every detail for something sentimental to package into a narrative.
The walls are polished. The floors gleam. The curtains are drawn back just enough to let natural light spill in curated humility.
"He always preferred the west-facing windows," I add casually. "Said the sunset made everything look softer."
It's a lie.
But it sounds good.
They scribble it down anyway.
I guide them toward the staircase and into the sitting room, where a large oil painting hangs prominently above the mantle.
It's one of the few things I truly invested in.
A portrait of myself and my son.
He looks younger in it. Composed. Beautiful in that quiet way that turns heads without trying.
"A painting?" one of the reporters remarks. "Not many commission those anymore."
