"Did you hear the news?" Timothy burst into Fitzgerald's office without bothering to knock.
Fitzgerald was seated beside the tall window, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. His steel-grey eyes lifted from the newspaper resting on his lap and settled on his younger brother.
A full tea service had been arranged neatly on the round coffee table beside him, steam still rising from the cup. Even in a modern penthouse office, Fitzgerald looked more like an Edwardian gentleman than a contemporary businessman.
And, of course, there were apples.
"Maximilian Whitmore is gravely injured," Timothy said, breathing hard. "They say he won't survive."
"Well, hasn't that worked out daintily for you?" Fitzgerald replied calmly. "You can march to his home and take your daughter if you want to."
There was no visible emotion on his face.
Even for Fitzgerald, that felt wrong.
Timothy slowly pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. "What do you know?" he asked quietly.
