Morning sunlight filtered through the Cross estate’s tall windows, streaking the marble floors in gold. For the first time in days, the house was quiet—not the heavy, waiting quiet of worry, but the kind that hummed beneath purpose. Everyone had work to do. Everyone had a role to play.
Mya stood at the window of her suite, coffee cup in hand, watching the grounds come alive. Gardeners trimmed the hedges. Security cars rolled down the long drive. Somewhere outside, she could hear Cameron laughing with a camera crew—he’d insisted on filming a charity segment that morning to keep the Cross name in the press for all the right reasons.
She took a slow sip, breathing in the calm before whatever came next.
Her phone buzzed on the dresser.
Keith: On my way over. Breakfast plans? Or am I about
