Sophie arrived at the penthouse the next morning. The elevator doors opened into a space that felt less like a home and more like a mausoleum.
She walked into the living room. William Croft was standing there, staring at the massive wall-mounted television.
On the screen, a press conference was taking place. A woman with sharp features and a predatory smile–Cynthia Sharpe–stood next to a man who looked like a tech-bro shark, Jaxson Vane.
*”We are thrilled to honor the legacy of the late Victoria Vance,”* Cynthia announced, feigning solemnity. *”By launching a nationwide search for the next great voice. This is ‘The Luna Search.’ Who will wear the crown next?”*
Jaxson Vane leaned into the microphone. *”She was a star that burned out too soon. We’re going to reignite the fire.”*
It was a crass, commercial exploitation of a tragedy.
William stood motionless. He didn’t scream. He didn’t throw anything. He simply picked up the remote and turned the screen to black.
He sensed Sophie’s presence and turned. His eyes were cold, dead things. He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t ask her name.
He walked past her as if she were a piece of furniture, heading for his office and closing the door with a soft, final click.
Sophie stood alone in the vast, silent room, the ghost of Victoria Vance heavy in the air, realizing she had walked into a house of shadows.