Cedar Hills, California. The late-afternoon sun poured gold across the garden, lingering as if unwilling to leave.
When the automatic gate slid open, the Bentley’s dark exterior reflected the sky, and Julian Hawthorne finally released a breath. He had just closed a major deal, yet the victory felt strangely empty.

The silence inside the car echoed the stillness of the house. Julian glanced at his emails out of habit—his usual armor. Then he heard laughter.
It wasn’t neat or contained. It was loud, raw, alive. He looked up, and something inside him shifted.
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