You always imagine rich people’s homes will feel warm because they have so much room for comfort.
But the King estate does not feel warm the first time you walk through it. It feels polished. Controlled. Silent in the unnatural way only enormous houses can be silent, as if every sound that rises inside them gets judged before it is allowed to exist. The marble reflects light too cleanly. The chandeliers glitter without softness. Even the flowers in the hallway arrangements look expensive before they look alive.
That is why the crying feels so violent.
Your daughter’s wail ricochets through the corridor like something breaking. Not glass. Not china. Something less replaceable. The kind of sound that makes heads turn, shoulders stiffen, mouths tighten. Every second Ava cries inside this house, you can feel your chance shrinking.
