The Carter mansion was wrapped in a false calm, the kind that came after storms but before destruction. Moonlight pooled through the tall glass windows, spreading over the polished marble floors and the grand staircase. But for all its beauty, the house didn't feel alive—it felt haunted.
Nick Carter lay awake in the dim light of his bedroom. His tie was undone, the top buttons of his shirt open, and a half-empty glass of whiskey rested on the nightstand beside him. The silence around him was heavy, broken only by the faint tick of the clock and the storm still running in his head.
He couldn't stop seeing her.
Samantha Bradley.
No—Ally.
The way she had looked at him across the ballroom tonight — calm, unreadable, a ghost made flesh — it unsettled him more than he'd admit. There had been no warmth in her eyes, only distance. Yet something about her silence felt louder than any accusation.
