The rain fell in relentless sheets over the small town of Holmestead in Northern England, drumming a staccato rhythm against the cobblestone streets. It was a cold, miserable drizzle, the kind that seeped into bones and turned breath to fleeting clouds of mist. James Carter hurried through a narrow alley, his black umbrella tilted against the wind, his boots splashing through puddles that mirrored the gray sky above. He muttered a curse under his breath, pulling the collar of his greatcoat higher. The weather was as wretched as his mood.

He'd just returned from London, a city of smoke and clamor, summoned back to the countryside by his father's curt letter: "Manage Greystone Manor. It's time you proved your worth." As the second son of the Carter family, James bore no title to inherit, no grand estate to claim—only the burden of a crumbling old house in the north, a relic of his family's fading glory. Greystone Manor loomed in his mind like a specter: ivy-choked walls, stained glass dulled by time, and a legacy he'd rather forget.