The silence in the mansion was maddening.
That night, Aira didn't sleep. She lay on the wide, cold bed, wrapped in silk sheets that felt more like shackles than comfort. The hum of the old French wind outside matched the pounding in her chest. She stared at the carved ceiling, replaying every moment in her mind—the private jet, the skyscraper, the way he watched her like she was his crown.
No more, she whispered inside her mind. I have to leave.
By dawn, she began memorizing paths.
The west corridor led to the gardens, but armed guards watched from above. The east wing housed endless doors—offices, wine cellars, a locked door with golden hinges. She studied it all like a prisoner counting the cracks in her wall.
On the third night, she noticed it.
A draft.
It came from behind an old
