The house smells like lavender and night rain.
It should smell like peace.
Instead, every room tastes of trespass — of invisible fingertips on surfaces that should have been safe, of footsteps erased, of breath pressed against glass in the dark while they slept unaware. A violation not of walls, nor of doors, nor of security protocols.
But of the illusion of safety itself.
Leo sleeps behind reinforced steel, voice soft in dreaming murmurs, tiny fists curled like petals. The panic-suite nursery hums with power, triple-locked, sealed tight.
Yet Emily cannot stop shaking.
Not in fear.
In fury.
The music box sits open on the table, the lock of Leo's hair still coiled like gold thread beneath surgical light. Alexander stands motionless beside her, but motionless for him is not stillness — it is the coil of a blade before it cuts. His silence is thunder waiting for lightning.
"Isabelle was in this room," he says at last, voice low, controlled like a gun safety still engaged.
