The Story of Gerald and Helena

The Lyselle Estate was quiet.

A rarity, considering the usual chaos that accompanied the Lyselle family. But tonight, the estate stood still under the soft glow of moonlight, the grand hallways and sprawling gardens cast in an eerie, peaceful silence.

In the private sunroom—one of Helena Lyselle's favorite spots—two glasses of wine sat untouched on a small marble table. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

Helena Lyselle reclined on the velvet chaise, one leg crossed over the other, her silk robe shimmering like liquid gold in the dim light. Her hair, usually pinned into an elaborate updo for events, spilled over her shoulders in loose, silver-blonde waves.

Across from her, Gerald Lyselle stood by the window, one hand resting in his pocket, the other holding a glass of scotch. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid in that way that said his mind was far away from the present moment.