PROLOGUE
THIS IS WHERE THE STORY BEGAN
The rain had started as a mist and turned into a slow, steady drizzle that coated everything in a thin sheen of silver. Freya stood with Steve and Jack at the rear of the two-story house, staring at the towering white-marble staircase that led from the patio down to the pool. Water streamed along the curved marble railings and dripped in clear beads from the ornate stonework, making the whole place look like it belonged in a magazine, untouched, elegant, sterile.
It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt wrong. Dark clouds smothered the moon. Rain pattered against the pool in soft, rhythmic taps. Inside, several lights glowed behind tall French doors—warm, golden, alive.