The front doors blew open before Klara’s hand even touched them.

Cold morning air swept in, curling through the foyer like a cursed spirit.

And there he stood.

Grayson.

Tall, crisp suit, shirt open at the throat. Calm, collected, and far too comfortable in a house that didn’t welcome him with open arms.

His eyes skimmed the room once—Roman, Tessa, Salima, Nandini, before landing on the suitcase at Klara’s side.

His mouth tipped into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Going somewhere, sweetheart?”

Klara froze. Her throat snapped shut. Her pulse climbed into her ears.

She whispered, barely a breath, “What are you doing here?”

Grayson didn’t even look at her fully....