Henry Marlowe, the billionaire who owned this place, had everything money could buy—except the one thing that haunted him daily: his daughter Lily, who hadn’t uttered a single word in ten years.
And now, just like that, this poor boy had shifted the fragile balance of our world.
Something about the boy’s presence felt wrong, but not dangerous—more like a crack in the glass wall we all lived behind.
Here was a kid from nowhere, wandering into our perfect-inside-fractured-outside life, staring straight at the silent girl who was never supposed to speak.
No one said anything about him, and that silence felt louder than any argument.
My days mostly blur into routines: the endless streams of meetings to coordinate schedules, keeping the estate running like clockwork, and little steps to keep Lily’s silence intact—a silence Henry insists is his daughter’s protection but that feels more like a cage.
Every morning, I oversee the same breakfast tray delivered at precisely 7:30 a.m. to Lily’s sunroom.
