The air around the Bradley Penthouse shifted long before Samantha's car even came into view.
Inside the estate's private rooftop entrance — a broad, polished stone path that ran beside a sleek reflecting pool — the maids rushed to form two straight lines on either side. Vera, the head of staff, stood tall in the middle of the walkway, adjusting the fold of her uniform and inspecting every detail with the eyes of someone who understood Samantha Bradley did not tolerate imperfection.
Her sharp gaze caught sight of a single dry leaf drifting toward the stone. In one swift move, she stepped onto it and gently twisted her heel to hide the offense — a silent act of protection for the rest of the staff.
A low hum approached.
Then the sleek black Mercedes Benz turned the corner, its engine purring like a well-fed predator. It slid to a stop at the estate's upper entrance beneath the hanging steel awning.
The chauffeur rushed forward, opening the rear passenger door with precision.
