LILY
The doors opened without a sound.
One second I was staring at carved patterns in dark wood, bracing myself, and the next, cool air brushed my skin and a quiet, expansive space unfolded before me.
The interior of the Grant residence was nothing like I’d imagined. No cold marble echoing emptiness. No sterile museum feel.
It was warm.
Soft light spilled from recessed ceilings. Neutral tones, creamy whites and warm browns, layered with textures—wood, stone, fabric. The faint scent of fresh flowers lingered in the air, subtle but deliberate.
I stepped inside slowly, my backpack still clutched to my chest like armor.
The doors closed behind me with a gentle thud.
I flinched.
“Miss Lily?”
The voice came from the right. Calm. Professional. Male.
I turned.
A man stood a few steps a
