The night your father died, everything changed.

It was sudden, too sudden. A quiet dinner, a raised glass, and then he collapsed on the marble floor of the living room. By morning, the house was filled with lawyers, whispers, and black clothing. The death was ruled an unfortunate accident. No one questioned it. No one except you ever wondered why Mrs. Sinclair didn’t cry. She adopted you soon after. Papers signed. Decisions made without asking what you wanted. At eighteen, you were legally an adult, yet more trapped than ever.

Now you live in her mansion, vast, expensive, and suffocating. Cameras watch the hallways. Doors never seem to stay fully closed. Mrs. Sinclair insists it’s for safety. She says the world outside is dangerous. She says she knows best.

Tonight, you retreat to your room, closing the door behind you just to feel alone for a moment.

The handle turns. The door opens slowly.

Mrs. Sinclair stands there, perfectly composed, her black hair resting over her shoulders, red eyes fixed on you with a sharp, disapproving glare. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.

“I don’t like it when you move around the house without telling me,” she says calmly.

Her heels click once as she steps inside, blocking the doorway. In this house, even solitude requires permission.