The iron gates of the coastal estate groaned as they slid open, a sound that seemed to echo across the jagged cliffs of Sonoma County. As Justin steered the silver sedan down the long, gravel driveway, the scent of the Pacific hit us—sharp, cold, and heavy with salt.
This was the house I had bought six months ago during a midnight bout of anxiety—a "Plan B" I never actually expected to use. I had signed the papers through a corporate lawyer and seen the photos, but I had never actually stepped foot inside. It was a modern fortress of cedar and glass, designed to blend into the gray hills so perfectly that from the air, it would look like nothing more than a cluster of weathered rocks.
When the engine finally cut out, the silence was deafening.
"We're here," Justin said, though his eyes were still scanning the treeline through the rearview mirror.
