The estate’s west wing annex was a world of deeper dust and older silence. The room Isabella had been assigned was larger than her office but felt more claustrophobic, lined with towering shelves of unlabeled boxes. A single, high, narrow window admitted a blade of pallid afternoon light, bisecting the motes dancing in the stale air. It was here, surrounded by the physical weight of the past, that her phone—a new, sleek device provided by the estate—vibrated with a single, coded text from Xavier.
Greenhouse. 7 PM. Urgent.
The hotel’s botanical greenhouse was one of the few semi-public spaces with blind spots, its lush foliage providing pockets of privacy. At seven, it was closed to guests, but Xavier, as acting CEO, had access. She arrived first, the humidity a shock after the dry chill
