The sound echoing from the floor above wasn't just a minor tumble—it sounded like a grand piano falling down a flight of mahogany stairs.

The west wing bedroom was larger than Claire’s entire Queens apartment. It featured a plush king-sized bed, heavy velvet curtains, and a private balcony overlooking the vast, dark woods that bordered the Westchester estate.

Claire stripped out of her wet clothes, took a three-minute hot shower, and put on the only other presentable outfit she had packed in her small duffel bag: a dark green sweater and black trousers.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She snatched it up instantly. LILY.

"Hi, baby girl!" Claire said, her voice softening into warmth as she leaned against the windowpane.

"Mommy!" Lily’s tiny, bright voice filled the line. "Mrs. Gable made me macaroni! She let me put extra cheese on it!"

"Did you say thank you?" Claire asked, smiling softly as tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Oh, how she missed her daughter's sweet, lavender-scented hugs.

"I did! Mommy, when are you coming home? Mrs. Gable said you're working at a giant castle with three princes."

Claire let out a quiet, ironic breath, staring out at the dark treeline surrounding the Moretti estate. "They're not princes, sweetie. They're... mischievous little knights. But Mommy will be home on Sunday evening. I promise."

"Okay! I love you, Mommy!"

"I love you to the moon and back, Lily pad."

Claire ended the call, squeezing the phone against her chest. Ten days until eviction. Forty-eight hours in this house. She just needed to survive forty-seven more hours.

A soft knock sounded at her bedroom door.

Claire opened it to find the elderly housekeeper standing in the hallway, carrying a tray with a silver teapot, two cups, and a plate of warm scones.

"I brought you some tea, dear," the woman said, her voice hushed. "I'm Martha."

"Thank you, Martha," Claire said, taking the tray and setting it on the small table near the bed. "I'm sorry about the scene earlier."

Martha let out a weary sigh, pulling the door partially closed behind her. "Don't apologize to me, child. I've watched six young women run weeping out of those front gates in the past three weeks. Those boys are brilliant, but they are wounded. And Mr. Moretti..." She paused, looking nervously down the empty corridor.

"What about him?" Claire asked, leaning forward.

"He's a man under siege," Martha whispered. "Since his wife, Elena, passed away two years ago, this house has become a fortress. Mr. Moretti thinks he can protect those boys from the world by putting up iron gates and hiring guards. But you can't protect children from grief with bodyguards."

"How did she die?" Claire asked softly.

Martha hesitated, her knuckles turning white against her apron. "A car accident. That’s the official story. But around here... nothing is ever just an accident."

Before Claire could press further, a sudden, loud metallic screech echoed from the floor below, followed by the deep, rumble of heavy SUV engines pulling into the cobblestone courtyard.

Martha went pale. "He's here."