The woman at the door—Lydia—ushered them in without ceremony, her arm draped protectively across Sarah’s shoulders like family. She smelled faintly of lavender and dish soap, her warmth radiating as she guided them through the massive stone archway.
The interior of the mansion opened like a cathedral. Sunlight poured through towering arched windows, striking the gleam of polished marble floors. Twin staircases spiraled up in perfect symmetry, their wrought iron rails coiling like black vines. Oil paintings of ancestors—or at least people who looked like ancestors—watched from gilded frames, their eyes seeming to follow the newcomers as if to judge whether they belonged.
James stopped dead, his mouth slack. Every room he could see—the formal living area, the music room off to the left with its grand piano, the ornate chandelier dripping crystals like frozen rain—felt less like a house and more like a movie set built to overwhelm.
“Act normal,” Sarah hissed under her breath, nudging him sharply in the ribs with her elbow. Her smile never wavered as Lydia glanced back at them. “We’re just… happy to be home, aren’t we, sweetheart?”
James snapped his mouth shut, trying to stand straighter, though the heels he wore made him wobble slightly. He muttered, “Yeah… home,” and **** a smile that probably looked half-panicked.
If Sarah noticed, she didn’t let on. Her hand brushed Lydia’s back as they walked deeper inside, her composure impeccable. It was uncanny—whether it was fragments of Kimberly’s memories seeping into her mind or just Sarah’s ability to seize control of chaos, she already carried herself like a wealthy divorcée stepping back into her empire. She knew which door led where, how to move as though she had never left.
James envied it—resented it a little too. He was still tripping over the fact that when he glanced down, slender wrists, painted nails, and a delicate body moved where his old form used to be. She was already thriving; he was just trying not to gape like a tourist.
As they passed under the chandelier, two more figures appeared at the far end of the hall. A man in a sharp suit—mid-fifties, with hair graying in neat silver streaks—stepped forward, giving a polite bow of his head. Beside him, a younger woman in a crisp uniform carried a tablet, posture stiff with formality.
“Mrs. Zolcak,” the man said, his voice smooth, almost rehearsed. “It is wonderful to have you back. The staff has prepared everything for your return.” His eyes flickered politely toward James. “And welcome home, Miss Ariel.”
James’s throat tightened. Miss Ariel. That was him now. He managed a nod, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as it felt.
Sarah took it in stride, offering a gracious smile that could have been printed on a society-page spread. “Thank you, Mr. Hale,” she said smoothly. “It’s a comfort to be back where everything is in such capable hands.”
Mr. Hale bowed slightly again, stepping aside to allow them through. The younger woman gave James a small smile—professional, not warm—before disappearing down a side hall.
As the echo of their heels and dress shoes followed them into the grand living room, James leaned closer to Sarah, whispering through clenched teeth. “You’ve already got them eating out of your hand.”
Her lips barely moved as she whispered back, eyes still sweeping the room like a queen reclaiming her throne. “That’s because I’ve done my homework. While you were still figuring out how to walk without falling over, I learned the Zolcaks’ world. Their friends. Their habits. Their house. Their staff. If we’re going to survive this, James, we need to be flawless.”
James swallowed, glancing up again at the chandeliers, the endless expanse of wealth. Flawless. Right now, he just wanted to figure out how to breathe in a world that didn’t seem built for him anymore.
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