Behind me, the villa rose like a stone monolith, its windows glowing coldly in the dusk.
A butler in an impeccable graphite suit opened the door and stared at the floor.
“Welcome, Mrs.n Montemayor,” he said in a practiced whisper.
I stepped inside. The marble floor was cool under my shoes, and the scent of polished wood mingled with the faint scent of perfume.
In the lobby, a line of employees stood silently with their backs turned, their faces hidden behind shiny masks.
A silver-haired woman led me up a grand staircase, her heels clicking like a metronome.
“The Master will escort you to your quarters,” he whispered, stopping in front of the enormous doors. la afrr
The bedroom interior was a veritable cathedral filled with silk curtains and gilded furniture, but the focal point of the room was a huge, custom-made wheelchair propped against the wall.
From there came Baste’s voice: “The couch is yours tonight.”
I stared at the plush sofa next to the impressive bookcase, feeling the weight of his gaze.
