Chapter 18
The silence of the Sterling mansion had always been synonymous with power. It was the quiet of a museum, a curated hush that signaled importance and exclusivity. But as Evan crossed the threshold of the grand foyer, the silence felt different. It felt heavy, pressing against his eardrums like the rising pressure of a deep-sea dive.
He didn't head for the bar. He didn't head for his office. He walked straight to the center of the living room and stood there, still wearing the shirt that smelled faintly of spilled scotch and the expensive, shallow atmosphere of the Ivy Lounge.
The house felt like a tomb. Every piece of pottery, every original painting, and every velvet-draped window seemed to be mocking him. They were the spoils of a man who knew how to buy, but had no idea how
