The Sterling Estate sat like a green jewel pinned to the edge of the city’s concrete sprawl. Here, the roar of traffic faded into a low hum, replaced by the rhythmic chirping of cicadas and the rustle of heavy vines. Bram Sterling stood on the wide, limestone veranda, his boots clicking against the stone.
He smelled of cedarwood, fermented grapes, and the sharp tang of salt from his own skin. His linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, strained against shoulders hardened by decades of manual labor.
A yellow taxi rattled up the driveway, kicking up a plume of dust that settled on the manicured hedges. When the door opened, Sophie Lane stepped out. She looked fragile against the backdrop of the towering oaks, wearing a white sundress that fluttered around her thighs like a nervous heart
