“This isn’t a mansion,” I muttered as the car turned past a tall stone gate with a J carved into a bronze plaque. “This is psychological compensation.”Maya immediately leaned toward my window. “Oh, wow.”The Jamesson estate stood on the hill like someone had once seen a European castle, felt personally offended about being born in California, then decided to take revenge with glass, limestone, and building permits that had definitely made a city planner cry in a bathroom.The driveway was too long.It curved past old olive trees lit from below, their trunks beautifully twisted, their leaves gleaming silver in the dark. In the middle of the courtyard, a large fountain sent water upward with a soft and deeply self-assured sound. Valets in dark uniforms stood in a neat line near the entrance stairs, their expressions identical: polite, expensive, and already familiar with far too many drunk rich men calling themselves “collectors.”The house itself…Damn it.I hated when something exces
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