Dominic’s POV
Brion Hills Golf Club looked exactly the same as it had a decade ago—immaculate down to the blades of grass, a monument to excess and ego disguised as tradition. Everything about it reeked of curated legacy. Even the air here smelled like privilege—cigars, cedar, and the faintest whiff of some overpriced cologne peddled as "heritage." It was the kind of place where old money didn’t just whisper—it barked orders between strokes, where new money showed up overdressed and desperate, praying someone at the clubhouse bar remembered their grandfather’s name.
And for what we were about to do, it was perfect.
Anna walked beside me, steady and silent. Her crisp white shirt was tucked with precision into her dark jeans, and every step she took on the manicured gravel paths felt deli
