The car climbed the serpentine road, swallowed by mist so thick it blurred the line between earth and sky. Celeste Vionne pressed her forehead against the cold window, watching skeletal trees loom and vanish like specters. The lawyer's letter had arrived a week ago—You've inherited the Reinhardt Estate—typed in sterile black ink, as if announcing a dental appointment rather than the keys to a crumbling dynasty.
"Miss Vionne," the driver said, gloved hands tight on the wheel, "we'll arrive in five minutes."
Celeste flicked ash from her cigarette out the cracked window. "Let me guess: cobwebs, creaking doors, and a butler who's been dead since the Victorian era?"
The man didn't laugh.
The estate announced itself with iron gates, their bars twisted into thorned vines. As the car rolled through, Celeste caught her reflection in the rearview mirror—violet eyes smudged with exhaustion, a smirk that hadn't reached her bones in years.
Perfect. A haunted castle for a hollow heiress.