The Limketkai mansion glowed against the dark like a quiet declaration of power.
Rainwater still clung to the wrought-iron gates, dripping in steady intervals onto the stone driveway. The garden lamps cast golden halos over manicured hedges, over marble steps, over the carved wooden doors that had witnessed decades of family decisions—alliances formed, inheritances declared, betrayals swallowed in silence.
Inside, the living room lights were already on.
The chandeliers spilled warm light over cream-colored walls and oil paintings framed in gold. The air carried faint notes of jasmine and polished wood. Everything looked composed.
Everything felt expectant.
Aira had sent only one message:
Come home tonight. All of you.
No explanation.
No softness.
And so they came.
Her grandmother
