The rain hammered against the slate roof of the isolated estate, a rhythmic, oppressive drumming that drowned out the sounds of the surrounding woods. Inside, the air in the master bedroom felt thick, smelling of expensive sandalwood incense and the metallic tang of a dying fire. Elena stood by the window, her silhouette sharp against the grey light. She wore a silk robe of deep emerald that clung to the curves of her hips, the fabric shimmering with every calculated movement.

Maya stood in the doorway, her fingers twisting the hem of her oversized t-shirt. She was nineteen, with the same wide eyes and pale skin as her mother, but where Elena was a polished diamond, Maya was raw, unformed clay.