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Finn stepped off the drizzly London street and into the opulent lobby of the Halbourne Towers, shaking raindrops from his jacket. The building’s interior felt more like a five-star hotel than a residence—gleaming marble floors, tall gilded mirrors, and a grand chandelier that scattered light in delicate prisms. At the center of the foyer stood a uniformed doorman, a silver-haired gentleman whose poise suggested he’d been greeting residents here for decades.

Amelia followed close behind, her heels tapping a subdued echo across the polished marble. She brushed a few stray droplets from her coat sleeve, a small sign of impatience. She always seemed restless to Finn when they had to deal with the formalities of high-society addresses—someone was dead, and time was ticking, but the world of the wealthy moved at its own measured pace.

The doorman inclined his head politely. “Good morning,” he said. “May I ask who you’re here to see?”

Amelia reached into her coat pocket, producing her badge. "Inspector Amelia Winters, Hertfordshire Constabulary, and attached to the Home Office. This is my colleague, Finn Wright."

Finn offered a small nod, noticing how the doorman’s brow lifted in mild surprise at the mention of the Home Office. It wasn’t every day that murders in affluent circles drew that level of scrutiny, but two high-profile victims from The Monarch Club had changed the usual rules.

“And you wish to see…?” the doorman prompted, though his tone remained calm.

“Rebecca Wardlow,” Amelia answered. “We understand she’s staying in the penthouse.”

A flicker of recognition passed across the doorman’s face before he nodded. “Yes, Madam Wardlow. One moment, please.” He touched a small phone panel behind the desk, evidently verifying they had legitimate business. The line connected, but no voice emerged on speaker. After a brief pause, the doorman turned back to them. “She is indeed in the building. You may proceed.”

He buzzed them through a set of double doors that opened onto a bank of elevators. Finn and Amelia headed that way, their footsteps echoing in the spacious silence. Halbourne Towers exuded wealth in every detail—fresh-cut flowers in vases, discreet security cameras overhead, tasteful art on the walls. Finn thought, not for the first time, how strange it was that tragedy and violence could slip through even the most elegant defenses. Money rarely deterred a determined killer.

They stepped into the elevator, a broad, polished cage lined with brass trim and inlaid wood. Finn’s eyes followed the golden designs etched into the walls as the doors slid shut behind them. Soft, melodic music trickled from hidden speakers. He recognized a tinny version of some 1970s hit, slowed to a dull, plodding pace—elevator music at its worst.

Amelia, noticing his grimace, quirked a tiny smile. “You look like you’d rather fling yourself through the ceiling than listen to this.”

Finn tried not to wince at the squeaky saxophone note. “I’d rather the elevator fail and we drop twenty floors. At least that would be over fast.”

She angled an amused glance at him. “Noted. Next time I need you out of the picture, I’ll just pipe in the entire Greatest Elevator Hits collection on repeat until you beg for mercy.”

He huffed a laugh. “A fate worse than death.”

They rose swiftly, passing quiet floors—some with exclusive labels, others presumably for staff or special use. At last, the elevator slowed and gave a subtle ding, opening onto the top floor. The corridor was hushed, the carpeting plush enough to muffle their steps. A single set of double doors, presumably the entrance to the penthouse, stood at the far end. Floor-to-ceiling windows flanked either side of the corridor, offering sweeping views of London’s skyline, cloaked in persistent gray drizzle.

Approaching the doors, they noted a discreet nameplate: Wardlow Residence. The polished brass reflected their distorted faces. Amelia rapped on the door, her knuckles sounding crisp in the silence.

Moments later, it swung open to reveal a maid wearing a neat black-and-white uniform. The woman’s posture was upright but uncertain, her gaze flicking from Amelia’s authoritative stance to Finn’s cautious half-smile.

“Good morning,” Amelia said, flashing her badge again. “We’re here to see Rebecca Wardlow, regarding an important matter.”

The maid nodded. “Of course. One moment, please.” She stepped back, letting them enter. The penthouse foyer was a tomb of refined taste—cream-colored walls, a polished marble floor continuing from the corridor, and tasteful modern art. Soft lighting cast a warm glow over everything, and the hush inside was broken only by distant city sounds from far below.

Finn and Amelia stepped inside. The door closed behind them, and the maid quietly hurried off. Within seconds, a woman emerged—a tall figure with chestnut hair pinned back in a somewhat disheveled bun, eyes red-rimmed from crying. She wore a fitted sweater and dark trousers, looking as though she was torn between mourning and forced composure.

“Ms. Wardlow?” Amelia asked gently.

The woman, tears brimming again in her eyes, nodded. “Yes… or, I suppose I should say Mrs. Wardlow. Though not for much longer, if we’re honest.” Her voice was a near whisper, thick with grief. “ You’re the police?” She seemed to recall Amelia’s introduction, but was too rattled to process it fully.

“Yes.” Amelia hesitated, then said softly, “I’m Inspector Winters, and this is Finn Wright, my colleague. We’re very sorry to disturb you at a time like this, but we have a few questions.”

Rebecca Wardlow lifted a hand to her temple, pressing as though battling a headache. “I already know what’s happened,” she whispered, fighting a fresh wave of tears. “Two constables came earlier to inform me. Geoffrey’s dead, isn’t he?”

Amelia’s expression gentled. “I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry.”

Rebecca’s composure wavered, and she let out a silent sob, turning her face away for a moment. The maid, lingering in the background, offered a sympathetic look but did not approach. After a deep breath, Rebecca seemed to steady herself. “I... I need to sit down.”

She led them down a short hallway that opened into a breathtaking sitting room, all glass walls on one side overlooking the city’s skyline. Raindrops speckled the tall windows, giving the morning a hazy quality. Plush sofas in muted tones sat atop an expensive-looking rug, while a sleek fireplace anchored the room’s center. Finn recognized at once the hallmark of a high-end interior designer—everything placed with painstaking care, a subtle reflection of wealth.

They seated themselves: Amelia beside Finn on one sofa, Rebecca across from them. The maid stood nearby, but Amelia politely requested privacy for official questioning. Taking the hint, the maid disappeared into a side corridor.

Rebecca’s shoulders were hunched, and her eyes showed raw sorrow. “You have questions about Geoffrey,” she said, a tremble in her tone. “Of course. Ask whatever you must.”

Amelia clasped her hands in her lap. “We’re investigating the circumstances of his death. I know this is difficult, Mrs. Wardlow. Could you tell us about your recent relationship with him? Were you living apart?”

Rebecca nodded, wiping at her cheeks with a tissue. “Yes. We were… well, separated. I’ve been staying here at the penthouse. We were… trying to reconcile.” She exhaled shakily. “Geoffrey had a gambling problem. A real addiction. He sought help recently, but I was giving him space to see if he could truly change.”

Finn leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice gentle. “Was this gambling connected to The Monarch Club, by any chance? We understand he was a member.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “The Monarch Club was the entire reason he spiraled. He’d go there, swearing it was just social gatherings. Next thing I knew, he’d lose thousands in clandestine card games or bets. When I asked him to stop, it was always ‘just one more time.’ But you can’t shut it down—these men are powerful, covering for each other. I loathe that place.”

Amelia nodded empathetically. “So you suspect illegal gambling goes on there?”

“Illegal, hush-hush, well-laundered—call it what you like,” Rebecca snapped, wiping tears again. “One evening he came home so shaken, said he owed a man tens of thousands. He insisted he’d fix it, pay it back. But the pattern never ended.”

“Was Sir Richard Doyle ever mentioned to you?” Amelia asked.

“They had dealings with each other,” Mrs. Wardlow explained. “They were friendly, but not close.”

Finn exchanged a look with Amelia, a silent I-told-you-so about the club’s rumored high-stakes games. “Mrs. Wardlow, did Geoffrey mention if he had any enemies? Someone who might want to do him harm because of these debts?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering with frustration. “He never gave names. Just vague references to ‘people who wouldn’t be crossed twice.’ I pressed him, but he shut down.”

Amelia’s voice was calm. “Could this be retribution for unpaid debts?”

Rebecca slumped back against the cushion. “Possibly. Or maybe he was blackmailed. I don’t know. He said he was trying to fix everything so we could be a family again. Now…” Tears welled again, and she drew in a trembling breath. “It’s all ended in violence.”

They asked the usual procedural follow-ups: when she last saw Geoffrey, whether he had admitted a specific sum of debt, if she remembered any suspicious phone calls. She did her best to answer, though her mind wandered, her words punctuated by sobs. Eventually, they sensed she’d told them all she could without unraveling further.

Finn stood, meeting her gaze with quiet sympathy. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Wardlow. We know how hard this is. If anything else surfaces—any detail—please contact us.”

She rose unsteadily, hugging her arms around her torso. “I will,” she managed. Then her voice turned bitter. “Whoever killed him, I hope you find them. The Monarch Club claims to uphold class, but… it devours people. If you can shut it down, do it.”

With that, the conversation closed. The maid reappeared to show them out. Finn and Amelia offered subdued goodbyes, acknowledging her grief with a final glance. The penthouse door gently clicked shut behind them, leaving the echo of grief in the corridor’s hush.

They walked back to the elevator, neither speaking until they stepped inside the sleek metal car. The doors slid shut, and an equally painful elevator music track replaced the previous. Finn stifled a groan. Amelia stared at the floor indicator, lips pressed tight.

He broke the silence. “So, it’s official: Geoffrey Wardlow was knee-deep in high-stakes gambling at The Monarch. And ironically, that’s the same angle we keep seeing with Sir Richard.”

Amelia nodded. “All roads lead back to The Monarch.”

Finn exhaled, leaning against the mirrored wall. "At least we have an inroad—secret gambling. We just don't know who's orchestrating it or how big it is. If we could confirm which members partake or who the big sharks are, it might point us to the killer. We're dealing with such powerful figures that I'm concerned they'll use their influence and put roadblocks in the way during a standard investigation so they can all keep their noses clean. The truth will get buried. We need… A different approach..."

She cast a sidelong glance at him. “This is true, but why do I have a sinking feeling you have a bad idea brewing?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “We need someone on the inside, don’t we? A fresh face, able to sniff out these clandestine games. Someone they’ll talk to. Someone who can get the info we need because they’ll have looser lips in private, away from an interview room at a police station, lawyer-ed up with the best money can buy. Someone who isn’t what they seem.”

Amelia gave him a wry look. “An undercover job at The Monarch? You do realize how exclusive that place is. You can’t just waltz in.”

Finn straightened, turning to face his reflection in the polished elevator mirror. He tugged on his jacket lapels, attempting a refined pose, nose in the air. Then, in an exaggerated British accent, he said, “But of course, my dear Inspector, I’m quite the English gentleman, old chap. Spot of tea and a crumpet, yes?”

Amelia let out a snort, half-choking on laughter. “You look and sound ridiculous. We don't talk like that any more than every second word out of an American's mouth is baseball or hot dog”

He grinned at his own reflection, ignoring her jab. “Don’t crush my dream. With a nice tailored suit, some arrogant swagger, and a borrowed accent, I could pass for an upper-class investor. Or some American transplant with bottomless pockets.”

She folded her arms. “You realize it’ll take more than a fancy suit to fool those guys, especially if any of them are suspicious of new faces. We were already in the club, though no members were present. Some of the staff might recognize you.”

He winked at her in the reflection. “I’ve got ideas about that too.”

She shook her head, but her lips curved upward. “I don't like this. It seems dangerous.”

The elevator eased to a stop, and a gentle ding signaled they’d reached the lobby. Finn turned away from the mirror. He could still see amusement and caution battling in her eyes. “I’ll work out the details,” he said softly. “But I’d bet everything that the key to solving these murders is to be found in the club's gambling circles.”

As the doors slid open, Amelia stepped out, throwing him a quick sidelong look. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble with the upper crust.”

A mischievous grin stole across his face, lingering from the elevator reflection. “Oh, absolutely. But isn't that the best bit?”