The following morning unfolded gently over the De La Vega estate, California sun was deceptive. It looked warm, spilling like liquid gold over the manicured hedges of the De La Vega estate, but a sharp, cool breeze reminded Eloise that she was still very much inside a gilded cage.
Eloise walked slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of a borrowed cashmere cardigan that still carried the faint scent of Luciano's cologne—sweet citrus, smoke, something colder. For the first time since her arrival, she was taking a proper tour of the property, and the scale of it still stole her breath: acres of manicured lawns rolling toward distant hills, a reflecting pool that mirrored the sky like black glass, stone fountains carved with twisting vines and winged figures that looked half-human, half-myth. Everything was beautiful in a way that felt deliberate, almost punishing.
