Julian’s arrogant smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before returning. He took another sip of his whiskey, puffing his chest out. "Leave," Julian commanded, his voice dripping with condescension. "This is a private residence, and this is none of your business. If you don't turn around right now, my security team will break your legs."
The older woman completely ignored him. Her leather-booted footsteps echoed rhythmically against the stone as she crossed the room with deliberate, measured grace. She bypassed Julian as if he were nothing more than a piece of cheap furniture. Kneeling on the cold floor, the older woman reached out with a trembling, yet deeply gentle hand. She cupped Clara’s uninjured cheek, her thumb lightly brushing away a mixture of blood and tears. The fierce authority in her eyes softened into overwhelming, maternal concern.