The foyer was a cathedral of shadows. Chandeliers drizzled pale light onto marble floors, their crystals trembling in the draft. Celeste's heels clicked like a clock counting down.
Then—silence.
A man stood at the foot of the staircase, his uniform black as a gun barrel, silver hair glinting like a blade's edge. He didn't move. Didn't blink.
Celeste arched a brow. "If you're the welcoming committee, I'd hate to see the exorcist."
His voice was frostbite. "You trespass."
"Funny. The deed says I live here now." She pulled the folded papers from her coat, fluttering them like a challenge. "Care to argue with bureaucracy?"
For the first time, his gaze flickered—not to the documents, but to her face. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Celeste stepped closer. "What? Do I have a stain?"
"You have her eyes," he said softly. "A pity they're wasted on you."