I had always known Helen owned property there. Yet knowing was nothing compared to seeing it.
As I approached the wrought-iron gates, my breath stalled. The mansion rose before me, its tall windows glowing in the afternoon light. Ivy climbed the stone facade, and a broad porch extended across the front like something out of a dream I wasn’t meant to enter.
“This… this is mine?” I murmured, gripping the steering wheel as though it might disappear if I loosened my hold.
The gates swung open at the press of a remote Mr. Whitman had given me. My car moved slowly up the gravel drive, tires crunching, until I stopped before the towering front doors.
Inside, the faint scent of polished wood and lavender lingered, as if Helen herself had just tidied the place. A sweeping staircase curved upward, its railing gleaming. My footsteps echoed as I drifted from room to room. Everything was flawless, meticulously arranged, yet burdened with an unseen weight.
