Celeste descended the grand staircase with a mug of steaming coffee in her hand, her pink curls bouncing slightly with each step. She wore a silk robe, her nails freshly painted, her phone glued to her other hand as she scrolled through messages. The house was quiet except for the faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen.

She walked straight to the counter, set the mug down, and sighed loudly. “No oat milk again,” she muttered under her breath. “Honestly, what kind of mansion runs out of oat milk?”

“Good morning to you too,” came a calm, firm voice from behind her.

Celeste turned abruptly, almost spilling her coffee. “Grandma,”...