ELOISE
The silence inside the estate’s private multi-car garage didn’t feel like the suffocating, heavy isolation of the guest cottage. It smelled of premium leather, rubber tires, and the faint, grounding scent of cedarwood that seemed to follow Mike Weller everywhere he went.
The far end of the structure had been converted into a high-end training space—polished hardwood flooring, a professional-grade breakaway basketball hoop, and walls lined with mirrors.
I sat on a high metal swivel stool near the edge of the court, my legs tucked up under me. I was still wearing his oversized grey t-shirt, the fabric draped like a protective tent over my cotton shorts. My damp copper waves were piled loosely on top of my head, a few stray curls bouncing against the back of my neck as I watched
