It wasn't a catering truck or a guest’s sedan. It was a modest, dark gray sedan that rolled quietly up the driveway before parking near the side entrance.

I watched as the driver's side door opened and an elderly woman with silver hair step out, leaning slightly on a carved wooden cane. She wore a simple, elegant black dress that spoke of old money and quiet dignity—a stark contrast to the flashy, aggressive fashion Patricia had always favored.

It was Eleanor Vance, Patricia’s estranged sister who had quietly cut ties with the family decades before the syndicate wars tore everything apart.

Daniel noticed her immediately, his posture stiffening beside me on the terrace. "Stay here," he said quietly, placing his glass down on the stone balustrade.

"No," I replied, resting my hand on his arm. "Let's go together."

We walked down the stone steps and crossed the grass toward the driveway where Eleanor stood, looking up at the grand facade of Raven Hill with a mixture of sorrow and profound relief.

As we approached, she turned her tired, perceptive eyes toward Daniel.

"You have your grandfather's jaw, Daniel," Eleanor said softly, her voice trembling slightly with age. "And your mother's stubborn refusal to stay in the dark."