The black iron gate opened with a low metallic groan. Inside, the garden was perfectly trimmed, flawless to the point of feeling unreal—more like a postcard than a place where people lived.
Marian tightened her grip on the strap of her backpack, smoothed her hair, and looked up at the tall glass windows. There was plenty of light inside, but no warmth. She had worked in large homes before, but never in one so heavy with silence.
As she crossed the threshold, a long hallway swallowed her steps. Oversized paintings lined the walls. Polished marble floors echoed softly beneath her shoes. Members of the staff nodded without really looking at her, offering brief greetings, as if speaking too much might break an unspoken rule.
Marian smiled anyway—out of habit, and out of self-protection.
Then Richard Navarro appeared.
Tall. Immaculate. His tailored suit fit him like armor. His eyes were sharp but distant, always focused on something just beyond the people in front of him.
“Good morning,” he said, without extending his hand.
It wasn’t rude. It was empty. As if courtesy were something he hadn’t practiced in a very long time.
He gestured toward the staircase.