The tires of the black car crunched over the pristine white quartz gravel of the Sterling Muskoka estate, a brutalist masterpiece of obsidian glass and reinforced concrete that jutted out over the dark, freezing waters of Lake Joseph. The house didn't welcome guests; it loomed over them, a fortress of modern coldness.
Julian didn't wait for a valet. He killed the engine, the silence that followed ringing in Styler's ears like a physical blow. He rounded the car, ripped the door open, and practically dragged Styler out. Her heels caught on the uneven stone, her breath hitching in the sharp, pine-scented air.
"Welcome home, Styler," Julian said, his voice a jagged edge of triumph. "Look at it. Really look at it. This is where the Virojn and Sterling lines become one. No cameras. No press. Just us."
