The house was quiet—eerily quiet, like it had been holding its breath all night.
Kingsley sat up from the guest room’s king-sized bed, a thin blanket tangled at his feet. His back ached from the mattress he wasn’t used to, and the events of the previous day weighed on him like bricks on his chest. He didn’t bother showering yet, just threw on a black T-shirt and loose joggers before stepping out into the hallway.
The scent of roasted coffee, fresh croissants, and eggs drifted down the marble corridor—proof that the house was awake, even if it felt lifeless.
He entered the dining room to find Beth already seated at the head of the table, in a sleek ivory robe, her tablet resting beside her plate. She was sipping orange juice, acting like the world hadn’t been set on fire just twenty-four
