Morning arrived dressed in gold and deceit.
Sunlight poured across the Morrison estate in long elegant sheets, touching polished marble, cut crystal, and manicured gardens with the kind of beauty that made ugly houses look holy.
From the outside, the mansion appeared flawless.
Inside, it was cracking.
Allison stood in front of her bedroom window with a cup of untouched tea in her hands and watched staff move across the front drive like anxious clockwork. Black sedans arrived and departed. Florists adjusted arrangements for the third time. Event coordinators rushed in and out with tablets clutched tightly to their chests. Security at the gates had doubled, though no one announced why.
The house was preparing for its most important dinner in years.
And Allison was preparing for its funeral.
She had not seen her parents.
Not yet.
