Two hours into the tour, Lucas was no longer certain they hadn't accidentally looped through another estate.
He was on his third wing, fourth security-locked hallway, and what felt like the seventeenth sitting room—each one more lavish, disturbingly symmetrical, and obsessively labeled than the last. The walls gleamed. The doors whispered open like well-trained spies. The carpets were silent, the temperature perfectly regulated, and the lighting could only be described as intentional.
It was inhuman. Immaculate. Terrifying.
"This is a mausoleum with Wi-Fi," Lucas muttered as they turned into a corridor lined with display cases holding what appeared to be vintage pens.
Trevor, walking beside him with infuriating calm, didn't even break stride. "They're war-era fountain pens. My grandfather was obsessed with handwriting."
Lucas stared at him. "Did he also believe in unnecessary cardio?"
"We're only halfway."
