The doorbell echoed through the Dubois mansion as I was finishing my coffee. I wasn't expecting visitors, especially not on a Sunday morning when the household typically enjoyed their quiet routines.
"Miss Elara, there's someone at the door asking for you," said Martha, one of our maids, with a curious look on her face.
I set down my cup. "For me specifically?"
"Yes, miss. A man. He says he has something of yours."
Frowning, I made my way to the foyer. Before I could reach it, I heard voices—Fiona's saccharine tone carrying down the hallway, followed by my father's deeper rumble. My steps slowed instinctively. Any interaction between my family and someone connected to me rarely ended well.
