Wesley met us at the double oak doors.
He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt crumpled, his posture slumped like a man who had spent the night staring at a wall. When his eyes met mine, a flicker of desperation flashed across his face, followed by immediate confusion as his gaze shifted to the entourage behind us.
"Nora," he breathed, reaching out a hand, then dropping it when my father stepped between us. "Nora, please. My dad is inside. He’s furious about last night, but he wants to handle this internally. You didn't need to bring... whoever these people are."
"Out of the way, son," Colonel Ellis said calmly, his voice slicing through Wesley’s nervous rambling.
"Colonel Ellis, sir, please—"
"I said, out of the way."
My father didn't push him. He didn't raise his voice. He simply took a single, deliberate step forward, and Wesley, stripped of his bravado, instinctively backed away, holding the door open.
We walked into the great hall.
The room was set up exactly as it had been the night before—the massive stone fireplace, the exposed timber beams, the long buffet tables still holding remnants of floral arrangements. At the far end of the room stood Margaret Pembroke, flanked by her two daughters, Victoria and Ashley. Margaret wore an elegant cream-colored silk dress, her arms crossed, her chin held high in a posture of regal defiance.
Beside her sat Richard Pembroke Senior in a leather armchair, a thick cigar unlit between his fingers, his expression dark and thunderous.
"What is the meaning of this spectacle, Thomas?" Richard demanded, standing up slowly, his voice echoing off the high rafters. "You send word that you’re invading my home with a legal team and federal officials? Over a harmless family prank? Have you lost your mind?"