Permission
⸻ Alara’s POV Sunlight spilled through the towering windows in golden streaks, casting long shadows across polished marble floors. The Wolfe mansion was quiet—too quiet. The kind of stillness that felt rehearsed, like the house had been trained not to make noise. I padded barefoot down the hallway, wrapped in one of the plush robes I’d found hanging in the walk-in closet. The floor chilled my toes. The house was absurd—art on every wall, gold in the light fixtures, chandeliers that looked like galaxies. It was a palace. Cold. Breathtaking. Untouchable. Like him. I found the kitchen by memory. Not a speck of dust. Not even the scent of food. Just order. Discipline. And power. A staff member appeared—polite, quiet, and eerily efficient. I declined breakfast. I didn’t think I could eat
- Writer
