The soft hum of the washer filled the laundry room, blending with the rhythmic thump of the dryer in the corner. The scent of lavender detergent filled the warm air, familiar and clean, but Ryleigh no longer found comfort in it. It smelled like routine. Like captivity disguised as order.
Her hands moved over the linens with methodical precision, folding, smoothing, stacking. The motions were automatic by now, as natural as breathing. But her mind was far away—circling the same silent weight that had followed her every step since Margaret Blackthorn slipped her that check like it was a gift.
She hadn’t shown anyone. Hadn’t spoken a word of it to Natalia or Derek. She’d kept it buried at the bottom of her purse like a secret grenade. But lately, she’d felt it ticking. A fuse slowly burning
