The morning sun barely broke through the heavy curtains of the McCoy mansion. Dust floated in the still air, and the silence was thick.
The once-lively house felt empty now, stripped of its former elegance. Papers were scattered across the dining table, each one stamped with red ink—FINAL NOTICE, OVERDUE, FORECLOSURE WARNING.
Victoria sat at the head of the table, her manicured fingers clutching a letter so tightly it crumpled. Her usually proud posture was gone; her shoulders were tense, her face pale. Her eyes darted to the stairs when she heard slow, heavy footsteps.
Carson appeared, disheveled as always—his shirt half-tucked, hair messy, eyes dull. He looked like he hadn’t slept.
“Morning,” he muttered, reaching for the coffee pot.
Victoria slammed the letter down. “Morning? That’
