I picked up.

“Liam,” my mother purred, smooth as expensive wine. “Where are you? The Senator asked for you.”

“I’m at the gate,” I said calmly. “My code isn’t working.”

“Oh, dear,” she said softly. “Have you seen a stray animal? Or perhaps… Mia?”

“My sister?” I echoed, casual.

“My child is sick,” my father’s voice boomed behind her. “Psychotic episode. Ran into the storm. She’s a liar, son. Dangerous. Bring her to the service entrance. The doctors are waiting to sedate her.”

Mia shrank under my coat, eyes glassy with fear.

“I see her,” I lied. “She’s near the gate. She’s… unstable.”

“Get her,” Arthur said. “Don’t let the guests see.”

I stayed calm. “If I drag her in now, she’ll scream. Cameras will catch it.”

A pause. Then my mother’s tone sharpened: “What do you suggest?”

“I’ll take her to my apartment,” I said. “Warm her up. Calm her down. Once the gala ends, I’ll bring her back quietly.”

“Good boy,” my father said finally. “Keep her quiet. Or we’ll handle you too.”

---

Later, at the apartment, Mia clung to cocoa like life itself. I accessed the Sterling private cloud using the emergency backdoor I had left years ago—an insurance policy against monsters. Files, ledgers, internal emails streamed onto my screen. Children labeled as “assets,” payout schedules, adoption dates. Then I saw my own childhood, cataloged coldly: high intelligence, low emotional attachment, high investment return.