Gwendolyn’s POV

Thorne Manor did not look like a house. It looked like a museum of the soul’s end.

The silver Jaguar glided through the iron gates of the estate, nestled deep in the Surrey countryside. High walls topped with electrified glass separated the manicured lawns from the ancient, gnarled woods that surrounded the property. Alistair drove with a numb, practiced efficiency, bypassing the main driveway and veering toward an ivy-covered stone annex that looked like a gardener's shed.

“The