ELOISE
The Weller estate library didn’t feel like a room inside a house; it felt like a cathedral dedicated to whispered secrets.
Two stories of dark mahogany shelves stretched all the way to the vaulted ceiling, packed with thousands of leather-bound volumes that smelled of old paper, cedar, and immense, generational wealth. A massive rolling ladder rested against the far wall, disappearing into the upper shadows, and a single, low-hanging amber banker's lamp illuminated the heavy green-felt writing desk in the center of the room.
I sat slumped over my laptop, my copper curls pulled back in a messy clip, a few stray tendrils framing my face. My eyes burned from staring at the glowing screen for four straight hours.
I was drowning in my Vanderbilt scholarship essay. Every time I t
