The automatic black gate pulled open with a smooth, silent whir, and the sleek car rolled inside the manicured grounds. Alina and Kelvin caught their breath, the Gray family mansion standing before them, not just gleaming, but radiating an almost hostile, pristine perfection.
Did someone repaint it? Alina thought, a sudden, bitter clarity hitting her.
Looking at the imposing structure now, through the lens of two years of grinding poverty, the comfortable narrative of her father's self-inflicted ruin—gambling, womanizing, alcohol—seemed suspiciously simple, too conveniently damning.
Was everything they said about him even true in the first place?
"I missed how we used to be," Kelvin whispered, the sound raw, his fingers tightening into a hard, small fist on the expensive leather seat.
