Ava's house was always like this—pristine, expensive, impersonal. Like a showroom nobody actually lived in.

A figure filled the doorway, backlit by the golden hour light. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A suitcase in one hand, car keys in the other.

His blonde hair was shorter, sharper. His suit was expensive—tailored, dark. His jaw could cut glass.

His eyes swept the room, cold and assessing, landing on each face in turn. On Ava. On Sam. Then—on her.