It was 9:47 a.m. in the Bright penthouse.
The floor gleamed like it had been waxed an hour ago—which, to be fair, it probably had. Winter didn't sleep. She didn't rest. She maintained. Like a machine with a dust rag. The place hadn't just been cleaned, it had been preserved—as if dirt feared showing up under her watch.
In the kitchen, Samantha stood with one hip leaning against the island, cradling a bowl of cereal like it might anchor her to the floor.
"I swear, it just ruffles my feathers," she said, spoon gesturing more than feeding. "Instead of listening to the truth, these grown men and women are busy abusing my son. Every time I go online, I see some terrible things."
Across the room, Winter didn't pause scrubbing the already-pristine sink. Her tone was calm, mechanical—but not unkind.
