The car slowed down as it approached the wrought-iron gates of the Welhaven residence.
Even in the fading light, the estate stood like a monument to beauty, tall hedges trimmed to precision, white stone pillars flanking the entrance, security cameras discreet but watchful of all the corners.
Home.
Ophelia leaned her head back against the leather seat and closed her eyes.
She was exhausted.
Not just physically, she had been unable to sleep even a wink in that jail, but also socially, emotionally, spiritually exhausted. The kind that clung to the skin like smoke and probably smelled.
All she wanted was to sink into the comfort of her marble bathtub. To disappear beneath water perfumed with imported oils. To light her French candles. To wash away the humiliation of the past couple of days
To pretend none of it had happened.
The horn sounded once.
Then again.
Ophelia frowned and opened her eyes.
Why wasn't the gate opening?
