Patricia's Mercedes rolled into the circular driveway at exactly 2:47 PM, easing to a stop in front of the Morrison mansion.
Same towering columns, same perfect landscaping, same creepy-clean windows reflecting back the afternoon sun. The whole place still looked like a museum exhibit about rich people who'd died a century ago. Cold. Untouched. A fucking mausoleum that pretended it was a home.
But her?She wasn't the same woman who left Friday morning.
She shut off the engine and just… sat there. Fingers still wrapped tight around the steering wheel like her body hadn't caught up to the fact that she was back. Her phone had exploded the moment she powered it on—fifty-three missed calls, twenty-eight texts, three voicemails she didn't even bother listening to.
All from Richard and Jack.Not one single "Are you okay?"Not one "We're worried."
Just orders. Demands. Panic disguised as ownership.Get home now.Where the hell are you.You're being unacceptable.
