"Bring him in."
Owen gave a small nod and stepped aside, holding the door open in silent invitation.
And then—footsteps.
Measured. Unrushed.
Damien stepped into the room, the low light catching against the sharper angles of his face, the lines of his now refined frame outlined beneath a high-collared black coat.
Dominic's gaze sharpened as his son entered the room, the overhead light casting narrow shadows along Damien's face, making the contours of his jaw and cheekbones seem more severe, more cut from stone than flesh. The coat he wore didn't hang like fabric—it settled like weight, as if it had been tailored not just to his frame, but to his will.
Dominic had already made peace with the fact that Damien had changed.
