Sleep never came.
I lay on the bed with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if it might crack and confess whatever secret this estate was hiding. The room felt larger at night, too large, too quiet. Damien's side of the bed was cold, untouched, like a reminder carved into the mattress. Every time I closed my eyes, Susan's face surfaced again. Pale. Lifeless. Unforgiving.
The woman who had smiled at me.
The woman who had welcomed us.
The woman who was now dead.
Dynamic Estate no longer felt luxurious. It felt hollow. Predatory.
I turned from side to side, my body heavy with exhaustion, my mind racing faster than my heart could keep up with. The walls felt closer. The silence felt loud. I felt watched, even here, even now.
I gave up on sleep.
I pushed myself off the bed and moved quietly through the house, barefoot on cold marble floors. Everything looked the same, yet nothing felt familiar anymore. This house had already been violated once. Maybe more. I didn't trust it. I didn't trust anything.
I reached for my tablet, the one thing that had always grounded me. Art had been my refuge long before Damien, long before debts and miracles and estates that swallowed people whole.
I sat at the dining table and opened my gallery.
Photos flooded the screen, trees lining the estate, fountains glimmering in the afternoon sun, the manicured gardens I had once admired with excitement. I selected one and began to sketch, my stylus moving automatically. Lines formed. Shadows followed. For a moment, just a moment I felt almost normal.
Then it hit me.
So sharp, so sudden, I froze mid-stroke.
A picture.
The mistress had said she had proof.
Pictures.
My breath caught as my heart began to pound.
If she had proof… if she wanted to show it to me… then it had to exist somewhere. And if she was killed before she could testify, then someone else must have known about that proof too.
Someone had beaten me to it.
I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling.
Her house.
That was the only place left.
I didn't allow myself time to think. Thinking would have talked me out of it. Fear would have won. Instead, I grabbed my keys, threw on a jacket, and stepped into the night.
The estate was eerily quiet as I drove out, the streetlights casting long, distorted shadows on the road. Halfway down the lane, something made me glance into the rearview mirror.
A car.
Too far back to be obvious. Too steady to be coincidence.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel.
I slowed.
The car slowed.
My chest constricted. When I finally pulled over, heart hammering, I stepped out, scanning the darkness.
Nothing.
The road behind me was empty.
I swallowed hard and got back into the car, forcing myself to keep driving. Whatever this place was, it was already inside my skin.
Susan's house loomed ahead, cordoned off with yellow tape, DO NOT TRESPASS. UNDER INVESTIGATION.
I stepped over it anyway.
Inside, chaos greeted me.
Drawers ripped open. Frames shattered. Furniture overturned. The house had been searched violently, desperately, as if someone had torn through it with panic instead of purpose.
They were looking for something.
The same thing I was.
I searched every room, every cabinet, every broken drawer. Nothing. No photos. No backup devices. No phone.
It was gone.
Everything was gone.
I stood in the middle of the wreckage, breathing hard, realization sinking deep into my bones.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't sloppy police work.
This was deliberate.
Someone was erasing the truth.
The only place left was Damien.
I drove straight to the station, but they didn't let me see him. I was turned away like a stranger, like I didn't matter.
The next morning, I returned.
This time, I didn't hesitate.
"Did you take a picture?" I asked him the moment I saw his face through the glass.
He looked away.
My chest tightened.
"Damien," I whispered sharply. "Did you?"
Silence.
Then, barely audible, "Yes."
My hands curled into fists. "Where is it?"
"My phone," he said. "I kept it there."
"Where?"
"At home."
I didn't even answer. I stood up and walked out.
I drove like my life depended on it.
When I got home, I knew instantly.
The door was wrong.
Unlocked.
Inside, the house felt… disturbed.
Drawers open. Cushions shifted. The air stale with intrusion.
I searched everywhere.
No phone.
They'd been here.
Again.
I sank onto the floor, my back against the wall, laughter bubbling out of me, broken, hollow, almost hysterical.
Mistress dead.
Susan dead.
Two phones missing.
All proof erased.
This wasn't about Damien anymore.
This was bigger.
I thought about leaving. Packing everything. Running far from this place that swallowed people whole. But as I dragged a suitcase toward the door, something made me stop.
I looked up.
Across the street, behind the glass of her massive window,
Mrs. Xavier stood there.
Watching me.
Not surprised.
Not curious.
Waiting.
A chill slid down my spine.
I slowly dropped the suitcase.
No.
I wasn't running.
Whoever was behind this wanted fear. Silence. Compliance.
They wouldn't get it from me.
Dynamic Estate had chosen the wrong woman.
And I would make sure they paid for it.