ROXIE

The morning sun filtering through the towering arched windows of the manor’s breakfast room didn't feel like a new day; it felt like the beginning of an interrogation.

I sat at the long mahogany table, my fingers wrapped tightly around a porcelain mug of black coffee, staring at the pristine silver tray in the center of the white linen. Resting on the polished metal was a fresh, wax-sealed black envelope. My name and Garrison's were written across the front in our grandfather’s unmistakable, aggressive calligraphy.

Challenge Two.

I hadn't slept. The silence of the east wing had been a suffocating cage, the phantom heat of Garrison’s mouth from the...