The Osborn Estate's gardens glimmered under the silver glow of midnight, the air thick with the intoxicating scent of jasmine and damp earth.
Fireflies flitted between the hedges like tiny stars come to life.
Billy had been wandering alone for nearly an hour, his mind a tempest of frustration and doubt.
Sophia's words echoed in his thoughts:
"You don't owe them your life."
But it wasn't that simple. Nothing ever was with the Osborns.
A voice sliced through the stillness, smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath. "You always come here when you're avoiding something."
Billy didn't turn; he recognized that voice better than his own. "Maybe I just like the night air," he muttered, trying to mask his inner turmoil.
Arthur stepped into view, his black suit merging with the shadows, moonlight carving sharp angles across his face.
He held two glasses of bourbon, one extended toward Billy.
"Liar."
Billy took the glass, their fingers brushing against each other, cold as ice.
