The evening in Paris carried with it a velvet chill, the kind that sank deep into the skin no matter how fine the fabric one wore. The black car rolled through tall wrought-iron gates, their gilded tips catching the glow of lanterns that had just been lit along the drive. The Moreau heirloom estate stretched ahead, a grand silhouette against the fading rose-gold sky. Its many windows glimmered faintly, like eyes watching their approach, ancient and unblinking.
Inside the car, Caroline pressed her palms against the leather seat as the vehicle slowed. Her wide eyes flitted from the endless gardens , manicured into perfection yet somehow foreboding to the stone angels perched along the entrance. Their faces, weathered by centuries, seemed to scowl at her intrusion. It was beautiful, yes, but in the way a museum of ghosts might be.
