The morning sky was gray, heavy with clouds, as if the world itself knew that something was ending. The grand McCoy mansion, once full of laughter and light, now stood silent and tense.
Boxes lined the marble floors. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hallways as workers carried furniture out the front door.
Victoria stood in the center of the foyer, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes followed every piece that left—the chandeliers she had handpicked, the paintings she had bought during better days, the antique vases she once polished herself when no one was watching. Each item felt like a part of her being ripped away.
A man in a dark suit approached her. “Mrs. McCoy, the bank has requested that all valuables be cataloged today. They’ll be collecting them
