The rain came down in relentless sheets, hammering against the tall, arched windows of Harper Manor. The wind howled through the barren trees outside, rattling the panes as if the storm itself were a living thing, clawing to get inside. Inside the cavernous study, James Harper sat hunched over a heavy oak desk, his brow furrowed as he pored over a leather-bound ledger. The flickering light of the fireplace cast long shadows across the room, dancing over the faded portraits of his ancestors that lined the walls. Their stern gazes seemed to judge him, a silent chorus of disapproval for the state of the family legacy.

James was thirty, though the weight of his solitude made him feel far older. His brown curls were unkempt, falling into his gray-blue eyes, and his once-fine waistcoat hung loosely on his frame. The manor, a sprawling gothic relic on the outskirts of London, had been his inheritance—along with a mountain of debts he could barely comprehend. His father had been a gambler, his mother a recluse, and now James was left to pick up the pieces of a crumbling estate. The ledger before him told a grim story: creditors circling like vultures, the tenants' rents barely covering the interest, and the roof leaking in three places he couldn't afford to fix.