Chapter 1 - The Seat at the Edge of the Frame
The grand ballroom of the Moretti estate hummed with the quiet, suffocating sound of wealth. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over hundreds of polished marble tiles, reflecting the tuxedos, silk gowns, and ice sculptures arranged for the family’s golden anniversary. At the center of the attention stood Marcus Moretti, forty-eight years old, broad-shouldered and sharp-featured, wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that radiated absolute authority. Beside him was his wife, Celeste, forty-one, stunning in an extravagant emerald evening gown that draped around her like liquid poison. Her diamond necklace caught the light with every subtle movement of her shoulders, throwing sharp, piercing flashes across the crowd.
Tucked away near the velvet curtains at the edge of the dais sat Silas Moretti. At seventy-nine years old, he appeared frail, folded quietly into a high-backed chrome wheelchair. He wore a heavy charcoal suit, dark leather gloves, and neatly polished dress shoes that looked as though they hadn't touched dirty pavement in a decade. His white hair was neatly combed back, and his faded blue eyes rested quietly on the room. Between his gloved fingers, he lightly held an antique brass pocket watch, its tarnished chain resting against his vest.
"Move him," Celeste murmured under her breath, stepping toward the photographer who was setting up the flash stand for the official family portrait. She didn't look down at Silas; she merely glared at his presence near the velvet backdrop. "He’s ruining the symmetry of the shot."
Without waiting for an attendant, Celeste stepped behind the wheelchair herself. With a sharp, contemptuous shove, she pushed the chair six feet backward, sliding it roughly out of the frame until the back wheels struck the base of a marble pillar. The sudden jolt rattled the old man, causing the brass pocket watch to slip from his gloved palm.
The watch tumbled through the air and struck the marble floor with a sharp, echoed crack. The glass face shattered into tiny crystal fragments, and the intricate gears spilled outward onto the gleaming floor.
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Celeste lowered her eyes, a cold, disdainful smirk touching her lips. She didn't offer a word of apology. Instead, she smoothed her emerald dress with painted fingernails and looked down at the old man sitting motionless in the shadows.
"Old relics like this belong in storage," Celeste said, her voice dripping with dismissive cruelty.
