And there stood Richard Wakefield—billionaire, industry titan, a man who had spent his life bending outcomes to his will—facing the one reality money refused to negotiate with. For the first time, his wealth was useless. His power meant nothing.
The mansion was vast, immaculate, and unbearably quiet. Not the calm silence of peace, but the heavy kind—the kind that accuses. It lingered in the walls, followed you into rooms, sat beside you at the table, and reminded you of everything you could not fix.
Richard had done everything a father with unlimited resources could do. The best specialists. Experimental treatments. Private nurses rotating day and night. Therapy animals. Gentle music drifting through the halls. Shelves filled with books, imported toys untouched by small hands, blankets in Luna’s favorite colors, walls painted just for her.
Everything was flawless.
Except Luna.
Her eyes no longer searched the room. They drifted past it, as if she were watching a world no one else could see. She existed somewhere beyond reach.
Since his wife’s death, Richard had quietly disappeared from the world that once praised him. Meetings went unattended. Calls unanswered. Headlines replaced his name with silence. The empire could function without him.
Luna could not.
