Snow didn’t fall on Blackwood Ridge.
It attacked.
The wind ripped through bare branches and hurled ice into my eyes until every breath tasted like metal. Beyond the trees, the Sterling Estate glowed unnaturally warm—light pouring from towering windows, climate perfectly controlled, silence perfectly maintained. A private world engineered to keep reality out.
Inside, the Sterling Christmas Eve Gala was in full performance mode. Senators, donors, tech executives, and local royalty floated beneath chandeliers the size of compact cars. A string quartet whispered elegance into the corners while champagne flutes chimed softly. Money laughed. Power smiled.
I arrived late because I wasn’t a guest.
I was proof.
The Sterlings had adopted me years ago and displayed me like evidence of virtue—the orphan turned cybersecurity prodigy. My place at their table was part of the aesthetic. Compassion, curated.
My SUV crunched up the long drive. The gates should’ve been open.
They weren’t.
I keyed in my code.
Access denied.
Again.
Access denied.
Annoyance flared—then died as my headlights swept the roadside. Near the woods, something small and bright lay half-buried in the snow.
Pink flannel.
I slammed the car into park and ran. Snow swallowed my shoes. Cold cut through my suit. I felt none of it.
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