“Get out of our way!” a sharp, aristocratic voice barked from the foyer.

Julian Vance, Harrison’s eldest son, fifty years old, marched into the living room in a tailored charcoal suit and a golden signet ring, followed closely by his sister Beatrice and two men carrying leather briefcases.

Beatrice, draped in an expensive trench coat, stopped near the grand piano and swept her eyes over me with a cold, aristocratic disgust.

“Still occupying the suite, I see,” she sneered, adjusting a diamond earring.

“I told you, Julian.