Arabella

The kitchen was cold. The only source of light came from the pale glow of the fridge. I poured myself a glass of milk with trembling hands. My fingers could barely hold the glass steady.

The Falcone estate was eerily quiet. Most people had gone to bed, and the guards were unusually silent. My bare feet padded softly against the marble tiles as I slipped into the corner near the window.

I sank down onto the floor, knees drawn to my chest, and placed the cold glass between them.

The glass of milk was forgotten, and my mind wandered.

I pressed my forehead to my knees, shoulders drooping as...