The car slowed along a gravel path, tires crunching gently beneath them as the trees opened into a clearing bathed in golden light. Sophie leaned forward slightly in her seat, hands folded neatly in her lap, heart oddly still.

This was the place.

Camellia had sent the address earlier that morning, calling it a “hopeful maybe.” A private estate just outside the city, used occasionally for art retreats and garden gatherings. It wasn’t listed online. No photo galleries. No grand marketing. Just an address and a key left under the stone pot at the gate.

And now they were here.

Sophie turned her head slowly as the estate came into...