I walked inside the villa slowly, deliberately, each step measured as if I were afraid the moment might shatter like fragile glass.
Every detail felt sacred — the familiar scent of polished marble and fresh flowers in the foyer, the soft golden light spilling from the crystal chandeliers, the quiet elegance that screamed old money and quiet power. This place wasn't just a house; it was home, the one I had lost the day Peter put a bullet in my skull.
I stepped into the living room and paused.
There she was.
Victoria Williams — my mother, the undisputed business queen of the city — sat gracefully on the wide leather sofa in a crisp charcoal office suit that hugged her mature, elegant figure.
