The convoy of sleek black cars rolled out of the Anstorne mansion, cutting through the morning mist like blades. The air was thick with tension as Madeline Anstorne sat stiffly beside her husband, Maxime, her fingers clutching the edge of her clutch bag while Juliette, seated at the far end, stared out the window in moody silence. The three of them were draped in elegance—flawless designer ensembles, hair sculpted into perfection, and expressions that screamed entitlement. Their destination: the Montgomery Estate, where Dante and Anastasia's wedding was about to unfold.
As their cars cruised out of the gated driveway and merged onto one of New York's primary arteries—a wide, bustling road lined with towering buildings and filled with the echo of horns and tire screeches—something eerie took over. It was a road oddly reminiscent of the one Genevieve and Hugo had their fatal crash on, and the memory hung in the air like a ghost.
