The first thing Willow noticed was the light.
It wasn't the soft, forgiving kind that blurred imperfections; it was deliberate—engineered to flatter money, ambition, and consequence. The Cordell estate shimmered beneath it, a monument to precision and excess. Limestone columns framed panels of glass that gleamed like liquid silver. The driveway curved through manicured gardens where jasmine and rain hung heavy in the air. Every hedge, every flowerbed, every reflection on marble screamed wealth with restraint—the kind that never apologized for being watched.
The car rolled past the gate. Security guards in tailored black nodded them through. Valets stood in formation, their smiles timed, their hands ready. A fountain dominated the circular drive—marble horses frozen mid-gallop, water arching in perfect symmetry under the chandelier glow spilling from the house.
