When Leo Shaw stepped out of the bathroom, steam still clinging to his skin like a second skin, the villa felt different—quibler, heavier, as if the air itself had been holding its breath. Yuna Lynch and Monica Bailey were gone. No footsteps in the hallway, no soft laughter drifting down from the second floor. Only the faint scent of Yuna’s jasmine perfume and the lingering warmth of Monica’s vanilla body lotion told him they’d ever been there at all.
He glanced up the curving staircase. The door to the master suite—his room, the one they’d playfully claimed as “the king’s quarters” just yesterday—stood ajar. A blade of golden light cut through the gap, spilling across the polished oak floor like an invitation.
Leo took the stairs two at a time, bare feet silent on the runner carpet. His
