Thomas brought her to his mansion on the outskirts of Bozeman, Montana—a perfect house, immaculate, luxurious, and strangely lifeless, like a museum where no one truly lived.
Thomas remained polite and distant. Their conversations revolved around schedules, legal matters, and practical arrangements.
They slept in separate rooms.
Until one evening Thomas appeared at her door, calm as if discussing a business contract, and said that the “necessary duty” should not be delayed.
He was not cruel.
But he was not kind either.
Everything about him felt mechanical.
Like someone fulfilling an obligation.
That night, Emily sensed something strange about the house.
The silence felt unnatural.
Almost staged.
She left her room and walked slowly down the hallway.
Then she noticed light coming from Thomas’s office.
The door was slightly open.
Driven by instinct, she approached.
On the desk lay several medical documents stamped by doctors.
The report clearly stated that the patient—Thomas—was in perfect health.
“Excellent long-term prognosis.”
No illness.
No terminal condition.
Nothing.
Under the report were legal contracts.