The Sinclair Ancestral Estate wasn't a house; it was a monument to old money and generational judgment.
Massive iron gates swung open to reveal a winding driveway lined with ancient oaks that cast long, imposing shadows. At the end of the manicured tunnel sat the main house—a sprawling Neoclassical mansion of white limestone, towering columns, and endless rows of sash windows that seemed to be inspecting Aria's fashion choices from three hundred yards away.
It looked like a museum where laughter went to die.
Aria stepped out of the black sedan.
Against the backdrop of austere stone and perfectly trimmed ivy, her neon green feather sundress didn't just pop; it screamed. She looked like a radioactive parrot that had crash-landed at a funeral.
"It's hideous," Damien noted, buttoning his suit jacket as he stepped out beside her. "Grandfather is going to hate it."
"Good," Aria beamed, adjusting her sunglasses. "I aim to displease."
