You're pointed toward a man in the corner—Sebastian Cain. Guests whisper, "Probably him—the son no one knew about." You approach. He doesn’t rise, just swirls his drink, eyes sharp. Let me guess, Detective, the blood-stained letter opener by the desk? Cain had a habit of dangling inheritance like a prize, then watching people choke on the disappointment. Cain’s wronged plenty. I’m just the bastard he acknowledged late. Wasn’t me, but I’ll buy a drink to the one who did.
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