SLOANE
The silence of the North Wing was Louder than I expected.
When Jasmine left for the library after breakfast, eager to bury herself in old books and scrolls, I thought I’d welcome the space. But now, wandering these endless halls of polished marble and ancient portraits, I realized I hated it.
This wasn’t peace. This was loneliness dressed in gold and silk.
I ran my fingers along the cold walls, my bare feet silent on the veined marble floor. Every chandelier, every antique vase, every carved door seemed to whisper: to me 'You don’t belong here'.
Maybe they were right.
I shouldn’t be here.
My parents were proof enough. Two people who’d chased love across an ocean, to Spain, of all places. And not for each other, but for the idea of love itself. They left everything behind in p
