The gates of my father’s estate opened before my headlights reached them.

For years, I had avoided driving through those iron gates after dark. They made the house feel less like a home and more like a place from another life—the life I had tried so hard to step away from when I met Elias. A life of polished marble floors, quiet staff, carefully worded business calls, and people who smiled at you while calculating what your last name could do for them.

Tonight, as my old car rolled up the long driveway, the house looked exactly the way it had on the night my mother died: every window glowing softly, the fountain lit silver in the courtyard, the stone walls standing like they could keep the whole world out.