The car door shut with a muted thud, and Evelyn stood alone on the curb, the city’s winter air sharp against her throat. Marble steps rose ahead of her, pale and polished, leading to doors embossed with the Crowe family crest—an emblem she had learned to recognize in passing, on stationery and invitations she never quite belonged to. Her heels struck stone in an even rhythm as she climbed. No pause. No glance back.
This place was never built for someone like me.
She straightened her spine before pushing through the doors, breath settling into something deliberate. The lobby smelled of lemon polish and money. A receptionist looked up, eyes flicking past Evelyn’s shoulder as if Julian might materialize there, tall and inevitable.
“Mrs. Crowe?” the woman asked, uncertain.
“Evelyn Hart,” s
