The Subtle Conspiracy
The mansion air felt heavier than ever, as though each breath Selena drew carried the weight of Alec’s unwavering gaze. It was early morning when she awoke, the pale light of dawn painting faint patterns on the silk duvet. She lay still, listening to the distant hum of the city, the soft click of the front gate, and the barely audible creak of doors opening to begin the day’s routines. Every sound in this house belonged to him—or had been sanctioned by him.
Selena slipped from the bed and wrapped herself in a pale cashmere robe. Her footsteps were silent on the marble floor as she made her way to the drawing room. There, on a low table, stood a single cup of Earl Grey tea, just as he always left it when he knew she’d be awake. A note in his precise handwriting read:
