The east wing stays quiet long after Mattheo leaves.
But quiet isn’t peace.
It’s pressure. Coiled tension under my skin. The sound of silence when you know something is watching, waiting, deciding.
I don’t know what time it is when I finally leave the room, folder tucked tight against my chest. I don’t know why I take it with me—maybe because it feels like proof. Of what I’ve seen. Of who I’m becoming.
The house is dim, lit only by wall sconces that cast long, golden shadows across the hardwood floors. The halls feel like veins in a body I don’t belong to.
But I walk them anyway.
Dario said I’m not locked in.
Let’s test that.
I pass the grand staircase, the quiet sitting rooms, the massive fireplace that still smells faintly of burnt cedar. Every corner of this place feels like it’
