The house was a lie.
Isla realized it the moment she stepped through the front door and into a space that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine rather than serving as anyone's actual home.
Everything was sharp angles and clean lines. Black marble floors so polished she could see her reflection. White walls that soared up two stories to a ceiling lined with geometric light fixtures that probably cost more than her college education. Chrome accents everywhere—on the railings, the furniture, the abstract sculptures positioned at strategic intervals like sentries guarding a museum.
It was stunning.
It was sterile.
It was absolutely, devastatingly cold.
"This way," Killian said without looking back at her, his shoes clicking against marble as he strode deeper into the house like he couldn't wait to be away from her.
Isla followed because what else could she do?
