Morning arrived quietly at the Norse mansion.
Sunlight slipped through the narrow gaps of the ivory curtains, spilling across the polished floor in pale gold ribbons. Dust motes floated lazily in the beam, suspended in silence.
On the bed, Lara's lashes trembled before her eyes slowly opened.
For a moment, she lay still—disoriented.
The ceiling was unfamiliar.
The air smelled different. Not the faint sandalwood polish of the Zuvel mansion. Not the distant hum of city traffic.
Then memory settled in.
She wasn't home.
She was in the Norse mansion—her godparents' estate. The place that felt both safe and heavy with history.
Her gaze drifted to the wall opposite her bed.
The one-year-old girl beamed at the camera, her two white teeth prominent. The smile was bright, untouched by the weight of the world.
Lara stared at that baby.
Morning light brushed over the glass, making the child's grin appear almost luminous.
So innocent. So unaware. Lara looked away first.
