Chapter 587

She deliberately quickened her pace, laughter bubbling up as Percival strode behind her. Odalys chuckled softly, clearly amused by their little game. Percival didn't mind her antics; he let her have her fun until she finally staggered upstairs. He opened her bedroom door, watching as she stumbled inside and collapsed onto the bed.

"Let me know if you're not feeling well," Percival said.

Odalys didn't respond. She rolled onto her side and pulled the blanket over her head.

Percival remained by her bedside. Quietly, he removed her shoes, shut the window, and poured a glass of water, leaving it on the nightstand. Then, he silently left the room. After lingering just outside her door, he checked on her again. Satisfied she was sleeping soundly, he headed downstairs.

Crossing the quiet, darkened grounds, he went to Callum's quarters. He opened the door and stepped inside. It was late, and Callum sat on the edge of his bed, reviewing documents under the dim light of a bedside lamp.

"Percival, why are you here so late?" Callum said, startled. He moved to stand, but Percival waved him back down. "Didn't I tell you to rest? What's so urgent that it can't wait?" Percival asked, his voice calm but firm.

Callum looked sheepish, setting aside his papers. "I couldn't sleep. Lying around all day doesn't help. I thought I'd review the upcoming quarter's schedule instead," he admitted, removing his glasses and running a hand through his hair.

"How's the hand? Any feeling in it?" Percival asked quietly. He poured a glass of water and handed it to Callum, his gaze shifting to the injured hand. He thought, That hand was nearly crushed because he was trying to text me. He swallowed the thought down.

"It's sore, but that's a good sign—there's still feeling. Odalys said it'll take time to recover fully. For now, I can manage just fine using my left hand," Callum replied with a small smile, lifting his good hand in a joking show of strength. The Stewart family was known for its ambidexterity. Everyone could write with both hands and shoot with precision, unlike most who relied solely on their dominant hand.

"Get some rest," Percival said. "If anything feels off, let me know. Don't stay up late again." He pushed the documents out of Callum's reach, making it clear the conversation was over. Callum rubbed his nose and gave a reluctant nod. "If you're bored, play chess with Dorian or have coffee with Evander. Focus on recovering first," Percival instructed, watching Callum's slight nod before handing him the water. Satisfied, he left the room.

As he closed the door, he noticed a figure leaning against a shadowed corner. The faint glow of a cigarette ember and the quiet rise of smoke were unmistakable.

"How long have you been standing there?" Percival asked.

Without turning, Orson exhaled a long, weary stream of smoke. "From the moment you went in." He flicked a stray leaf off his shoulder and kicked a pebble away, his expression unreadable.

"What happened?" Percival asked, stepping closer. He plucked the cigarette from Orson's fingers and extinguished it.

"Finnian's not going to make it through the night," Orson said quietly, his voice heavy. He thought, I'm not doing this out of selfless compassion, but after more than a decade of seeing Finnian as a brother, it's hard to ignore that he's now facing a slow and painful death.

"How about we go upstairs for a drink?" Percival offered.

Orson nodded slightly and followed him into Stewart Villa. Their footsteps were synchronized, each maintaining a calculated distance—second nature; if trouble came from ahead, the one behind would have room to maneuver, a habit ingrained in families accustomed to a life of danger.

The house was silent as they made their way to the study. Percival retrieved a bottle of vintage red wine, poured a glass, and handed it to Orson.

"Thank you," Orson muttered, lifting the glass. He glanced at Percival's shirt, noting the disheveled collar and missing buttons—an unusual sight for someone who usually presented a meticulous image.

"Did Odalys do that?" Orson teased.

Percival looked down as if noticing the state of his shirt for the first time. He shrugged slightly. "She mixed up her drinks tonight—thought it was juice. She got a bit tipsy and playful."

Orson listened, silently amused. After taking a sip of his wine, a thought crossed his mind. "By the way, did you hear about Caspian contacting Elias in the East District? Is the Bennett family teaming up with him? Sure, the guy's rich, but he's not exactly known for his business sense," Orson asked, a faint hint of confusion in his voice. It seemed the Bennett family had aimed to ally with influential families, but settled for Elias instead.

"Elias's son passed away. They're looking for someone to perform a posthumous marriage," Percival explained, his voice even.

The phrase sent a shiver down Orson's spine. He rubbed the back of his neck, an uneasy feeling crawling over him as he quickly went around, turning on every light in the study.

"Posthumous marriage? Seriously? With whom? Other than Sophia, the Bennett family only has Hannah left. I heard she was arrested after someone tipped off the authorities. But she's supposed to be released tonight since there's no evidence of any transaction and no money changed hands," Orson said.

Percival ran his fingers along the rim of his glass, gazing at the swirling deep red liquid. "It seems the Bennett family wants to offer Sophia a posthumous marriage to secure funding from Elias," Percival said thoughtfully. He thought, In the nightclub, everything became clear. Windsor knocked Sophia out—this was their plan from the start. They adopted her in a rush, but once she became a liability, they were just as eager to exploit her.

"Well, that sounds like quite the spectacle. I think I'll go watch," Orson smirked. He tossed back his wine and set the glass down with a heavy clink. Then he glanced at Percival's injured leg. "You're better off sitting this one out. I'll give you a live report." He added, with a playful edge, "I'm curious to see how they handle posthumous marriages these days," as he hurried toward the door.

Percival watched Orson leave before heading to his room. After a quick shower, he emerged in a robe, towel-drying his damp hair. Water glistened at the tips of his dark locks, tracing a path down his chest and vanishing beneath the robe. He walked toward the next room, pushing the door open to find the bed empty. The only sign of occupancy was a rumpled blanket, and the room was quiet and still.

"Where are you, Odalys?" he murmured, his brows knitting in concern.