Gabriella’s P.O.V

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, that slow, smug kind of smile that rises when you know you’ve finally made it, or you’re about to. The Synclair estate loomed before me, all polished stone and perfectly-trimmed hedges that looked like they hadn’t been touched by human hands in decades. This place reeked of money. Not new money either—the kind that flashed around and bought sports cars and noisy jets. No, this was old money. The kind that built museums, ...