Snow didn’t fall on Blackwood Ridge—it attacked.
The wind clawed through skeletal branches, driving ice into my eyes and making every breath taste like metal. Beyond the tree line, the Sterling Estate glowed like a private planet, windows shining warm against the frozen dark. Inside, the Christmas Eve Gala was in full swing: senators rubbing elbows with tech magnates, donors laughing over champagne, local celebrities shining like ornaments under chandeliers the size of small cars. The quartet in the corner played delicately, a soundtrack to wealth and power.
I arrived late. Not because I was invited—I wasn’t a guest. I was a prop.
The Sterlings had “adopted” me years ago, parading me as proof of their generosity: an orphan turned cybersecurity prodigy. My seat at their table was human décor—a piece of their self-congratulatory art. I was a child they’d claimed, trained, and polished, only to remind the world they were good.
My SUV crunched up the long, icy driveway. I expected the iron gates to swing wide for valets. They didn’t.
Access denied.
I punched in the code—nothing. Again—nothing. Anger flared, then faded as my headlights swept the roadside. Fifty yards down, near the dark woods, something small and bright lay half-buried in snow.
Pink flannel.
I slammed the car into park and ran. Snow swallowed my shoes, biting through my suit, but I didn’t feel it.
“Mia!”
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