The car glided down the winding, private roads of the Upper District, its interior cast in a dim, sterile glow. Inside, Geney Ford sat completely motionless, her back straight against the leather, her hands clenching her designer clutch so tightly the knuckles turned white. Her chest ached with a heavy, hollow rhythm. The echo of her son's voice—"Because I love Dahmer!"—still rang in her ears like an physical explosion, shattering years of carefully constructed expectations.
When the vehicle finally pulled up to the grand, limestone gates of the main Ford estate, the doors slid open with a hushed mechanical sigh. Geney stepped out into the humid evening air. The oppressive silence of her own territory wrapped around her, a suffocating contrast to the explosive confrontation she had just left behind. Her heels clicked against the pristine marble foyer as she entered, the sound sharp and lonely.
