The sprawling estate of Preston Aldridge, a billionaire known throughout the country for transforming crumbling neighborhoods into thriving real estate districts, usually gleamed like a beacon after sunset. The structure sat on a rolling hill outside of Ravenshore, California, and its windows normally poured warm light across the grounds. The staff would be bustling, the air full of friendly chatter, and the laughter of his five year old twins, Mikaelyn and Masonel, would echo from the upper floor as they chased toys and invented games. That predictable glow was the comfort Preston clung to after endless business meetings and social events.
On this particular night, his driver guided the luxury sedan into the circular driveway and stepped out to open Preston’s door. Preston grabbed his coat, muttered a tired thank you, and walked toward the front entrance. He expected the brass handle to feel warm. He expected the smell of cinnamon from the kitchen. He expected everything to reassure him that he had come home.
The moment he pushed the door open, the illusion shattered.