Herbert Mansfield disliked mornings.
They always seemed to arrive with problems.
He sat at the head of the long breakfast table in the one of the Mansfield residences, breathing slightly harder than necessary simply from the effort of lowering himself into the chair. Herbert Mansfield was a short, broad man, his build thick through the middle and his neck nearly swallowed by the collar of his silk robe. His face had once been pleasant enough, but years of indulgence had softened it into something puffy and perpetually irritated.
A servant placed a tray before him.
Toast, eggs, meat pies, cakes, cheese sandwiches and coffee. Breakfast.
Herbert waved at it impatiently.
"Yeah, yeah. Leave it."
The servant retreated.
Herbert picked up the newspaper and squinted at the print.
He had been given the finest tutors money could buy when he was young. Latin, mathematics, philosophy, languages—everything expected of a boy from a powerful family.
Unfortunately, none of it had stuck.
He read slowly. Lips moving sometimes. Skipping lines when the sentences became too long or complicated.
"Bloody nonsense," he muttered.
He threw the paper aside. His mind had been elsewhere lately anyway.
It had been gnawing at him again.
That thing.
The uncomfortable fact that hovered behind every polite conversation he had with other wealthy men.
Most of the vast Mansfield fortune—
He had inherited it.
And everyone knew.
Herbert poured coffee into his cup with a slightly trembling hand.
It wasn't that people insulted him directly. They were far too polite for that.
But he noticed the differences.
At dinners. At parties. In those little clubs where men of his standing gathered to smoke and talk about the world as if it belonged to them.
There was always someone who had done something.
Several men had served as decorated officers during the war.
Another had turned his grandfather's modest shipping company into a global empire.
Another had designed some new machine that revolutionized manufacturing.
Each of them had a story.
A mark.
Something that belonged to their generation.
Herbert stirred his coffee irritably.
"What've I got?" he muttered.
Nothing.
He had tried a few ventures early on.
Those had gone poorly.
Very poorly.
If his two sons had not stepped in over the years—quietly correcting his worst decisions—the Mansfield fortune might have taken a serious hit.
That thought irritated him even more.
He took a gulp of coffee and burned his tongue.
"Damn it!"
He slammed the cup down.
Military service had never been an option. The army had made that quite clear years ago.
They had used polite words.
Health considerations.
Physical limitations.
The truth was simple.
He was too fat.
Too slow.
Too… everything.
Herbert scowled at the tablecloth.
So that left only one path.
If he could not fight.
If he could not run a business brilliantly.
Then he would invent something.
Something important.
Something people would talk about.
Something that would make them say—
Herbert Mansfield did that.
That was how this whole business had begun.
About six months ago he had overheard a conversation during a government reception.
Some dull bureaucrat talking about wildlife.
Declining populations.
Endangered animals.
Tigers had been mentioned several times.
Apparently their numbers were dropping fast.
Governments were worried. Conservation groups were making noise. International pressure was building.
Herbert had leaned closer to the conversation at once.
Animals meant biology.
Biology meant pharmaceuticals.
And pharmaceuticals meant inventions.
His eyes had lit up.
If he could create something useful for endangered species—something scientific, important, dramatic—
Then people would talk about it.
The newspapers would write about it.
He would be invited to conferences.
Panels.
Awards.
He imagined standing on a stage somewhere explaining how he had helped preserve one of the world's most magnificent animals.
Herbert had felt very pleased with himself.
So he had poured money into the Mansfield pharmaceutical laboratories.
"Figure something out," he had told the scientists.
"Something big. Something clever."
They had tried.
And after months of experiments, failures, adjustments and frantic research, one of the teams had produced something… promising.
A compound.
A biological stimulant designed to increase reproductive activity in large mammals.
The logic was simple.
If endangered animals bred more frequently, populations could recover faster.
The compound wasn't finished yet.
Not even close.
It was unstable.
Unpredictable.
And certainly not intended for human consumption.
But Herbert didn't care about those details.
He only cared that it existed.
He had started referring to it proudly as "the Mansfield solution."
Even if the scientists never used that name.
Which they didn't.
Still.
It was progress.
Real progress.
Until this morning.
Herbert shoved another piece of buttered toast into his mouth and chewed loudly.
A nervous junior manager from the Mansfield laboratory stood near the door.
The poor man had been sweating since he arrived.
"Well?" Herbert said through a mouthful of toast. "What's the damn problem then?"
The manager cleared his throat.
"There has been… a discrepancy in the inventory records, sir."
Herbert's eyebrows lowered.
"What sort of discrepancy?"
"One of the compound samples appears to be missing."
Herbert froze.
"…Missing?"
"Yes, sir."
Herbert's face slowly began to redden.
"How the hell does a sample go missing?" he snapped.
The manager shifted nervously.
"It was kept in the restricted storage unit, but when the team conducted their routine check this morning—"
"I don't care about routine checks!" Herbert barked. "Where is it?"
"We are investigating that now."
Herbert slammed his palm against the table.
"Well investigate faster!"
The manager flinched.
"That sample represents months of work!" Herbert continued angrily. "Do you know how many companies would kill to get their hands on something like that?"
The man nodded quickly.
"Yes, sir. That was our concern as well."
Herbert leaned back heavily in his chair, breathing harder.
A competitor.
That had to be it.
Industrial espionage.
Corporate sabotage.
Some bastard company sneaking into his factory to steal his breakthrough before he could announce it.
His mind raced through possible suspects.
Rival pharmaceutical firms.
Foreign investors.
Disgruntled employees.
"This is sabotage," Herbert muttered darkly.
"We will find the responsible party," the manager said.
"You better."
Herbert jabbed a thick finger at him.
"And when you do, I want names. I want charges filed. I want lawyers involved. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
The man hesitated.
"There was… one other detail."
Herbert squinted at him.
"What now?"
The manager swallowed.
"The security logs show that the sample was removed… legitimately."
Herbert frowned.
"What do you mean legitimately?"
"The storage unit was opened using an authorized access code."
Herbert's irritation deepened.
"Well whose code?"
The manager shifted again.
"…Your wife's."
The room went very still.
Herbert stared at him.
"My wife?"
"Yes, sir."
Herbert blinked.
Then blinked again.
"What the hell would Monica be doing at the factory?" he demanded.
"She visited three days ago," the manager said cautiously. "She requested a brief tour of the research wing."
Herbert tried to remember.
Now that the man mentioned it…
Yes.
She had said something about that.
He hadn't paid much attention.
Monica visited places like that sometimes. Charity events. Board appearances. Society obligations.
He had assumed it was one of those things.
"She requested to see the biological labs specifically," the manager continued.
"And you showed her?"
"Well… yes, sir."
Herbert stared at him in disbelief.
"You showed my wife a restricted research compound?"
"She is listed as an executive spouse on the access authorization—"
Herbert threw up his hands.
"Oh for God's sake."
The manager hurried to clarify.
"We assumed she was simply curious about the project."
Herbert leaned back again slowly.
His mind churned.
Monica.
Taking the sample.
Why?
Unless—
A thought flickered across his mind.
And suddenly Herbert's face changed.
"Oh… hell."
The manager looked confused.
"Sir?"
Herbert rubbed his temple.
"And lock the rest of the samples somewhere my wife can't get them."
"Yes, sir."
He stared at the coffee.
"Monica… Monica…"
A thought crept slowly into Herbert Mansfield's mind.
He stopped chewing.
His small eyes narrowed.
"Hold on," he muttered.
The factory manager looked up.
"Sir?"
Herbert leaned back heavily in his chair, frowning as the idea formed. Thinking was never something that came to him quickly; when it did, it arrived in thick, clumsy pieces.
Monica.
His wife.
She had taken the sample.
Why?
Not for money. That made no sense. Herbert kept her supplied with more money than most people would see in three lifetimes.
Not for science either. Monica didn't know the first thing about laboratories.
But there was one thing she did care about.
Her son.
Herbert's mouth twisted.
That rude brat.
Michael.
Even thinking the name irritated him.
The boy had never shown him proper respect. Always polite, but there was something in the way he spoke. Something that made Herbert feel like he was being looked down on.
Herbert snorted.
"Yeah," he said suddenly, pointing a thick finger at the manager. "That's it."
"Sir?"
"That's what she's done."
Herbert slapped his palm on the table as if the mystery had now been completely solved.
"She nicked it for that rude brat of hers."
The manager blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"My wife!" Herbert barked. "She took it for her son. What else?"
He leaned forward, growing more irritated the more he spoke.
"That boy's always poking his nose into things, isn't he? Factories, inventions, whatever rubbish he's playing with these days."
He waved a dismissive hand.
"His little toy company."
The words came out dripping with mockery.
Herbert had never taken Michael's businesses seriously. To him, anything that wasn't heavy industry or shipping or manufacturing steel was basically childish nonsense.
The manager opened his mouth cautiously.
"I believe Mr. Dantes owns several extremely profitable—"
"Yeah, yeah," Herbert cut him off impatiently. "Doesn't matter."
He jabbed a finger in the air again.
"That's what this is. Monica's trying to help him. Handing him my work so the rude brat can run off and pretend he invented something."
Herbert's cheeks were turning pink now.
"And I'm the one paying for the laboratories! Paying the researchers! Paying the electricity bill!"
His breathing grew louder.
He shook his head furiously.
The manager said nothing.
Herbert pushed his chair back with a scrape and stood up, already winded from the motion.
"That's the trouble," he grumbled, pointing toward the ceiling as if Monica were standing right above him. "That's the problem with marrying hungry women from poor backgrounds!"
His voice rose.
"They can dress up all they like, wear diamonds, talk fancy—"
He jabbed a finger toward his chest.
"but inside they're still the same!"
His face was red now.
"Stealing!"
A little spray of spit flew from his mouth as he spoke.
"Like an alley cat!"
The manager instinctively leaned back.
Herbert sucked in a breath, chest heaving.
"She might've fooled the first man she married," he snapped, wagging a finger in the air.
"But she doesn't fool me."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still breathing hard.
"Not for one second."