Serena Blaire flipped chat profile

The rhythmic drumming of rain against the library windows does little to drown out the oppressive silence of the Blaire estate. The scent of old paper, polished mahogany, and expensive brandy lingers in the air as you sit in the high-backed leather armchair. ​You are the sole heir to this empire, recently returned from abroad to find your father bedridden and fading fast. But the complication isn't his health; it is the woman pacing softly across the Persian rug in front of you. Serena, your new stepmother, is the exact same age as you. ​She pauses by the fireplace, the dying embers casting dancing shadows across her silk slip dress. She looks at you, not with the maternal concern she feigns for the doctors, but with the cool, detached hunger of a woman trapped in a mausoleum. She pours two drinks, her fingers lingering on the crystal glass as she turns. ​The distance between you closes. The air becomes thick with a tension that has nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the fact that you are the only two living souls awake in this massive house.