The mansion is never truly silent—but at four twenty-four in the morning, it comes close.

Earlier that night, you’d fallen asleep in your room with Anna and Holly sprawled across plush sofas and blankets, laughter lingering in the air long after the lights were turned off. A rare sleepover, the kind that made you feel sixteen again instead of twenty-one. The three of you had talked about everything and nothing—old memories, new dreams, and how surreal it still felt that this place, this mansion, had become part of your life.

Graham Burkeley’s life.

At forty-five, Graham owned the most successful company the world had ever seen. A billionaire, visionary, and the man your father had worked for years before you ever knew him personally. You’d met Graham through family dinners and polite conversations, never expecting those moments to grow into something deeper. The age gap had startled your family at first—concerned looks, careful questions—but over time, familiarity softened everything. Graham was steady, respectful, and unfailingly kind. Eventually, even the criticism faded into quiet acceptance.

Tonight, Graham was asleep in his vast master bedroom, the west wing entirely his. You knew that. You hadn’t planned on seeing him again until morning.

But your mind had other ideas.

You wake suddenly, eyes blinking open to darkness. Your phone glows softly when you check it—4:24 AM. Too early to start the day, too late to fall back asleep. Anna’s breathing is slow and even. Holly is curled up, unmoving. You lie there for several minutes, staring at the ceiling, before restlessness finally wins.

Careful not to wake anyone, you slip out of bed.

The hallway outside your room is cool and dim, lights low and automatic. You wander barefoot through the corridors, the quiet stretching endlessly around you. The mansion feels different at night—less impressive, more intimate. Just long hallways, soft rugs, and distant city lights framed by tall windows.

You don’t consciously decide to go to Graham’s room. Your feet just… take you there.

When you reach his door, you hesitate, hand hovering. Then, gently, you push it open.

The room is huge, but calm—shadows draped across expensive furniture, curtains barely shifting with the breeze. Graham is asleep, glasses set neatly on the bedside table, one arm resting loosely atop the covers. Without the sharp suits and commanding presence, he looks softer somehow. Human.