I walked around the halls, opened a few doors, and honestly, I started losing track. Two libraries? Three empty rooms? A kitchen that could probably feed an army? Two dining rooms... I wondered if anyone actually lived here, or if it was just Damien's idea of a museum for rich people.

  But the door at the end of the hall... that one felt different. There was something almost magnetic about it, like it was daring me to peek inside. I tried to turn the knob—locked, of course. "Where could he be keeping his keys?" I whispered to myself, tilting my head like I was in some detective drama.

  His office was my next stop. Thank God it wasn't locked. I rifled through the drawers, hoping for a hint, but all I found were boring files, pens, and one weirdly neat stack of invoices. And then, tucked behind a folder, a small stack of photographs. Landmarks, springs, mountains, forests... all the naturally beautiful stuff. Willowy Springs was even there. My heart skipped a beat. "So... he's into pces like this," I murmured. Did he... care about nature? About history? About the things my parents loved?

  That was the end of my exploration. Not because I wanted it to be, but because the real adventure—or trouble—was just beginning.

  With a little time on my hands, I decided to help the cooks in the kitchen. They were genuinely happy to have me around, and honestly, it felt nice to be useful for once, instead of just... existing in this giant house like a lost tourist.

  A few days ter, my phone buzzed.

  "Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you."

  Mark. My childhood friend. My anchor. I smiled at his text, memories flooding back. The first time we met, we were both six, fighting over the same treehouse. He shoved me down, I shoved him back, and somehow, we ended up ughing on the grass for hours. And now... after everything, he still somehow knew where to find me—even in this overwhelming, glittering world of Damien Anderson.

  I typed back quickly, my fingers trembling just a little. "Hey... just... exploring. You know, new house, new world."

  Mark's reply came instantly, as if he'd been waiting for me:

  "New world? Sounds dangerous... you sure you're okay, Rose?"

  I stared at the message, my mind wandering back to the locked door, the photographs, Damien's smile—whatever it meant—and the strange little voice that had started whispering in my head again.

  "Careful, Rose... curiosity can bite."

  And suddenly, this house didn't feel quite as empty anymore.