The sky over Bogotá was wide and bright, sharp with that high-altitude burn that makes you squint even when it's cold.
The van pulled through black steel gates and rolled up a curved driveway lined with palms and golden lanterns. The estate sprawled like something out of a narco fairytale—columns, terraces, a long pool that gleamed.
It was too perfect. The kind of place you just know had bodies buried beneath.
Claire stepped out and adjusted her sunglasses. She followed the others through a courtyard with statues and trimmed hedges and guards pretending not to be watching.
She was trying not to stare, but—shit. The money behind this place. The arrogance of it.
Inside was cooler, darker. Marble floors. Glass everywhere. She caught her reflection in a mirrored panel and didn't recognize herself for a second—white dress, red lips, hair done up. Not the girl who used to fidget in TV dramas. Not even close.
