Night settled over the Sterling Mansion like a velvet curtain.
From the outside, the estate looked the same as it always had—grand, untouchable, glowing softly beneath the carefully placed garden lights.
Inside, it felt like a cage.
Ivy walked slowly down the corridor toward her room, the marble cold beneath her bare feet. The house was quieter than usual tonight. Even the staff moved carefully, speaking in hushed voices.
Whitestone guards stood at every major hallway.
Watching.
Waiting.
She kept her face calm as she passed them, though her pulse hammered beneath her ribs.
Forty-eight hours.
That was how long she had before Killian shipped her off to New York like fragile cargo.
She stopped in front of her door.
For a moment, she simply stood there, staring at the handle.
Then
