The fog over Monterey clung to the Grayson estate like a shroud, heavy and watchful, as if the ocean itself were holding its breath. Maxwell Grayson sensed it before his eyes even opened. Something in the air pulsed with tension, a tremor too subtle to identify but impossible to ignore. He rose from bed earlier than usual, feeling the tightness of unrest beneath his ribs. Routine had always been his armor, so he suited himself in it with precision. Shirt, tie, cufflinks. coffee in hand. a quiet attempt to tame the day.
He descended to the east wing. His footsteps echoed softly against marble. The estate was silent except for a faint metallic click. It was sharp and wrong, cutting through the air like a blade. He stopped at his office door. It was open. He never left it open.
He pushed the door and the world narrowed to a point.
At his desk sat Tessa Linwood, the maid. a woman in simple black uniform and loose hair that usually stayed pinned tight. Her face was drained of color. Her hands hovered above stacks of cash laid out like museum exhibits. The safe behind her gaped open. Documents were scattered, some bearing his signature, some not. The room smelled of dust and panic.
Maxwell felt heat surge through his veins. “What are you doing,” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Why is my safe open. Why are you touching my money.”
Tessa jolted upright. The chair screeched against the floor. “Mr. Grayson, please, I swear I did not steal anything. I am not taking anything. I only came because something was wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” Maxwell snapped, advancing. “You are in my private office. That is what is wrong. Who gave you permission to be here.”
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