The mansion was quiet at night — the kind of quiet that only old wealth can afford. Thick carpets swallowed footsteps, chandeliers glowed like frozen constellations, and the air carried the faint scent of polished wood and her father's pipe tobacco.
Christy kissed her father goodnight the way she always did, a soft press of lips to his forehead. He pretended not to worry, but his eyes followed her as she walked down the hall to her room. He could feel the shift in her lately — the tension beneath the perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect daughter façade.
She closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, exhaling.
The satin-covered bed, the antique mirror, the designer dress laid neatly on the chaise — everything in the room was curated to reflect who Christy was supposed to be.
Composed. Collected. Chosen.
