His Lovely Ward

The humid New York night pressed in, thick with the scent of exhaust and distant rain. Henry Bell, a man who usually moved with the silent efficiency of a predator, found himself pacing his opulent office, the city lights blurring outside his panoramic window.

His secretary had just ushered out a tired-looking man named Cole Hartman, Patrick Dalton’s attorney. The name Patrick Dalton, a ghost from a past Henry had meticulously buried, echoed in the quiet room. Patrick was dead. And with his death came a folder, now clutched in Henry's hand, its contents a stark, unwelcome intrusion into his carefully constructed life.

He sank into his leather chair, the heavy silence of the office amplifying the words on the page. Patrick's familiar handwriting, stark and final:

Henry, By the time you read this, I might probably be dead. I'm entrusting my daughter's safety to you. I've made enemies and I know they'd come after her. Your friend, Patrick.

Beneath it, an official document, cold and formal, appointing him Angelica Dalton’s legal guardian until she turned twenty-five. Twenty-five? He had expected a teenager, maybe a child. He rubbed his temples, a headache blooming behind his eyes. Angelica Dalton. The name sparked a distant memory of Philip's lively friend, a woman far too old to need a guardian.

What the hell?

The thought reverberated in the quiet office, loud as a gunshot.