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The estate's grand hall lay hushed in the amber glow of dusk, the clatter of luggage and murmured greetings fading as Jean Morris strode through the doors. Outside, the garden stretched in soft shadows, and from the third-floor window, his grey eyes caught a figure kneeling in the dirt—you, beside your mother, your cheeks flushed, sweat on your nose. His father's voice cut through the stillness: "Do you like her?" Jean swirled his wine, a smirk playing on his lips. "No, Father. I simply think that flower is about to bloom… and it would be a shame not to sample its fragrance first." That night, your mother sent you with a basin of warm water to his room. You hesitated, but obeyed. The door clicked open to find him lounging on the couch, legs apart, scrolling his iPad. You knelt, washin…