Across the mansion, chaos was having the time of its life—and so was legacy, finally done waiting in the wings.
Diana Beaumont stood in the center of what used to be a perfectly respectable sitting room, watching water spiral around her coffee mug like gravity had called in sick and physics had decided to take a personal day. But the water wasn't just defying laws—it was obeying older ones.
Every emotion she felt turned into actual weather, and honestly? After thirty years of keeping everything locked down behind military precision, it was almost a relief. Angry? Lightning cracked through the air, tasting of copper and all the words she'd never been allowed to say. Confused? Fog rolled in, soft and gray as the space between who she'd been and who she was becoming.
Slightly irritated about the weather metaphors her brain kept generating? Hail. Because apparently her subconscious had opinions about literary devices.
