EMMA
They didn’t take me back to my cabin.
That was the first sign that something was truly wrong.
Instead, they ushered me into one of the common rooms near the center of the estate—a wide, stone-walled space usually filled with laughter, music, and the smell of coffee and engine oil. Tonight, it felt like a bunker. Lamps burned low. Curtains were drawn tight. Men and women moved with purpose, voices hushed, shoulders tense.
No one met my eyes.
“Sit,” one of them said—not unkindly, but firmly—guiding me toward a heavy wooden chair near the hearth.
“I want Gabriel,” I said immediately. My hands were shaking now that the adrenaline had nowhere to go. “I’m not staying here while everyone pretends nothing’s happening.”
“He’s busy,” another replied, already turning away.
“With what?” I
