The Silverling mansion stood as a testament to calculated wealth and power, its sharp angles and pristine glass panels reflecting the icy glow of the moonlight. The grounds were immaculate, the surrounding trees swaying gently in the winter breeze, their skeletal branches whispering secrets to the wind. Inside, the grandeur of the mansion was a stark contrast to its cold exterior—ornate chandeliers bathed the rooms in golden light, and rich, velvet furnishings exuded decadence. But the warmth was superficial, a veneer over the simmering tension that crackled between Ethan and Amelia like a live wire.
Amelia reclined on the velvet sofa with the air of someone who owned the room, her long legs crossed elegantly, the slit of her black silk dress revealing just enough to suggest temptation.
