The rain fell heavy against the tall glass windows of the Sinclair estate, blurring the world outside into streaks of gray and green. Elena sat in the chaise lounge by the fire, robe loosely tied at her waist, a half-empty glass of red wine dangling from her fingers. She had spent the past few weeks drowning in silence—running from gossip columns, the whispers in polished corridors, the flash of cameras that didn’t care she was grieving more than escaping.
Here, in the country, there was no one to watch. No one but her maid.
Marisol.
She moved like smoke, quiet and graceful, always a step ahead, never a word out of place. Twenty-two, maybe younger. Hired only a month ago through the estate’s service agency, she was supposed to be just another part of the background—laundry, breakfast tr
