POV: Isabella
The office was a confession. Not of guilt, but of intent. It was a small, windowless room adjacent to Alistair Hale’s private study, accessible only through a connecting door of heavy, polished oak—currently locked from his side—or via the main hallway. The walls were lined with empty, pristine bookshelves of dark cherry. A single, vast mahogany desk dominated the space, its surface bare save for a new computer monitor, a phone, and a brass lamp with a green glass shade that cast a sterile, concentrated pool of light. On the desk sat a single, thick file folder labeled Preliminary Inventory—Estate Holdings. The air smelled of lemon oil and new carpet, with an underlying note of stale, recirculated air.
It was not a room meant for inspiration. It was a room meant for process
