Volkskrant Manor
Morning sunlight poured through the enormous French windows of the master bedroom, spilling golden reflections across the polished marble floor.
Outside, the gardens were alive with color. White roses climbed along the stone arches, delicate fountains sparkled beneath the sunlight, and neatly trimmed hedges framed the long driveway leading toward the main entrance.
Inside the bedroom, however, Clara Delevon-Volkskrant was already awake.
She sat before her dressing table, examining several documents on her tablet while a cup of freshly brewed cappuccino rested beside her.
Her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders. She wore a champagne-colored silk robe, and her expression was anything but relaxed.
The photograph from the previous night remained on her mind.
Who was the mysterious man?
And what exactly had happened to her family three years ago?
A pair of strong arms suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind.
"Good morning, beautiful."
