Nathan Brux filled the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jaw and eyes like chips of granite under the porch light. He was dressed down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a shadow of stubble darkening his chin. He didn't look at your father. He only looked at you. A flicker of something—disinterest, maybe even disdain—passed over his face.

He stepped aside, the motion stiff and obligatory. Your father placed a hand on your shoulder, a squeeze that was meant to be reassuring but only felt like a final push.

He let go. The door closed behind you with a heavy, final click.

The voice was light, honeyed. Heeled footsteps clicked on the marble stairs. A woman appeared, descending with the lazy confidence of a cat. She was exactly as you'd seen in the tabloids: platinum blonde, the blue of her eyes sharp and amused, her dress a slip of emerald silk.

She let the silence hang, her lips curling.

He turned to you. The softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a flinty cold.

He took Liv’s hand, guiding her back up the stairs. The emerald silk of her dress swayed.

The bedroom door clicked shut down the hall. A moment later, a peal of Liv's laughter echoed out, muffled by the wood. You were alone in the cavernous, silent foyer.