Beneath the Marble Walls

The first time Adrian Crestwood stepped into the Weatherly estate, his black coat dusted with snow, he felt the silence of old money and empty hearts wrap around him like an expensive coffin. The grand chandelier above him sparkled coldly, indifferent to his presence. Marble floors stretched endlessly ahead, polished to an unnatural gleam, reflecting nothing of the warmth a home should possess. He had come for business. Adrian was a self-made billionaire, the kind the world either envied or feared. The acquisition of the Weatherly vineyards was meant to be another notch in his belt, another fading legacy absorbed by his growing empire. What he didn’t expect was to be personally invited to stay at the estate. Gregory Weatherly had insisted—a gesture of civility, he had claimed. Civility, Adrian soon realized, had no place in that house. It was during that first night, wandering the halls, that he saw her. A figure half-hidden in the dim corridor outside the library. She was curled up on a window seat, reading in silence. Slender. Pale. Her hair cascaded over her shoulder in a tangle of chocolate brown. He might have missed her entirely had she not looked up. Hazel eyes met his—startled, then quickly averted. She rose, muttered a soft "Good evening," and vanished before he could speak. Gregory had not mentioned a daughter.