The early morning sun bathed the Margiela estate in warm, honeyed light. Perched high above Los Angeles in the exclusive hills of Hollywood, the mansion stood like a marble crown amidst sprawling greenery. Gilded gates framed by ivy-covered stone pillars enclosed the property, and a long cobblestone driveway snaked upward through meticulously landscaped gardens, dotted with imported olive trees and modern sculptures that glinted faintly in the sun.

Beyond the gate, a pair of black government SUVs idled quietly, their sleek, matte surfaces a stark contrast to the estate's old-world grandeur. The mansion itself was a masterpiece of European-inspired architecture—white stone walls with ornate carvings, towering arched windows framed in gold, and a triple-height foyer crowned with a domed skylight that glowed from within. It looked more like a royal villa than a family home.

An FBI agent stepped out of one vehicle. Her blazer caught the breeze as she approached the intercom at the gate.

"This is Agent Mireille with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," she said into the mic, revealing her badge to the camera, her voice crisp. "We're requesting to speak with Karina Margiela regarding an active investigation. Please allow us entry."

Inside, Karina Margiela sat curled on a velvet divan in her bedroom, tucked into the eastern wing of the house. Her room was effortlessly elegant—muted tones of cream and soft blush with golden accents, high coffered ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling French doors that opened to a private balcony overlooking the gardens below. The scent of roses drifted in from the grounds, mingling with the faint trace of her amber perfume.

She wore silk pajama pants and a cropped black USC sweatshirt, her long dark black braid falling over one shoulder as she tapped through spreadsheets for her business class. Her workspace was lined with hardcover fashion anthologies and a sleek MacBook, surrounded by notes scribbled in delicate cursive on luxury stationary.

Her phone buzzed.

It was her mother.

Karina answered, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Hi, Mammina—what's up?"

"There are FBI agents at the front gate," her mother said, her tone edged with concern. "They're asking for you by name."

Karina's brows furrowed. "What? Why?"

"They wouldn't say. Should I let them in?"

She paused, mind already racing. "Yes. It's fine. Let them in."

Minutes later, the soft click of designer heels and polished oxfords echoed down the central hall as the agents were led into the grand salon—a room built like it was during the renaissance. It featured high vaulted ceilings, two crystal chandeliers, a white marble fireplace with gilded trim, and antique furniture imported from Italy. Light filtered in through cathedral windows, casting long beams across a plush Persian rug and oil paintings in heavy frames.

Karina entered quietly and stood tall, despite the unease tightening her stomach. Her expression was calm, her movements graceful, a poised daughter of the elite. Yet the presence of federal agents in her home was anything but ordinary.

Agents Mireille and Brioni turned toward her. Mireille was elegant and sharp-eyed, while Brioni—taller and built like a former athlete—gave a more tempered nod.

"Miss Margiela," Brioni began, "Thank you for meeting with us. We know this is sudden."

Karina crossed her arms. "So... what's this about?"

"We're investigating a group known as the Maskers," Mireille said. "I'm sure you've heard about them recently. They're dark magic cultists, and we have reason to believe a woman matching Edel Monclerchanteau's description may be involved."

Karina blinked, taken aback. "Edel? As in... Edel Edel?"

"She was presumed dead in the Monclerchanteau estate fire," Mireille continued. "But recent sightings suggest she may still be alive."

Karina's chest tightened. Her voice lowered. "You're just realizing this now? Where were you years ago when that fire destroyed everything? The Monclerchanteaus were one of the most powerful families in Europe, and the investigation was swept under the rug."

"We're not here to rehash those shortcomings," Brioni said, gently but firmly. "We're trying to prevent new ones."

Karina exhaled slowly, stepping toward the massive bay windows overlooking the city. "I haven't seen her in years," she murmured. "We were close... but after the fire, it was like she was wiped off the face of the earth. No warning. No goodbye."

Grief resurfaced, and it tugged her heart.

She turned, studying the agents. "If she's behind this... then maybe she's just trying to finish what you couldn't. It's not Edel's fault justice was never served."

"If she contacts you," Mireille said, "Let us know immediately. For her safety and yours."

Karina gave a slight nod, though she had lingering mistrust.

As the gate closed behind the departing SUVs, silence settled once more over the Margiela estate—thick, almost suffocating, with Karina's mind drowning in bittersweet memories.

Karina remained by the window, her eyes locked on the winding road that disappeared into the hills, her reflection shining in the glass. Edel. Alive.

It didn't feel real. Not after all these years. Not after the nights she'd cried into her pillow in secret, the long walks along the beach where she'd imagined Edel beside her, wind in her platinum silver hair, laughing like she used to. Not after spending every birthday lighting a candle and whispering a wish that somehow—somehow—Edel might have survived.

Karina had loved her.

Not just in the simple, sisterly way people assumed. It was deeper. Raw. True. The kind of love Karina had never dared name aloud, not even to herself, until it was too late.

She turned away from the window, blinking back the sharp sting behind her eyes. Her room suddenly felt too bright, too still. She walked slowly to her desk and lowered herself into the velvet chair. Her laptop screen had gone dark. The spreadsheet for her Business Administration class was still open.

But her mind couldn't go back to schoolwork. Not now.

Edel, where did you go? Why didn't you tell me?

There was a soft knock at her bedroom door before it opened gently. Her father, Romeo Margiela, stepped in, dressed in a dark cashmere gilet and navy blue slacks, his black hair slicked back.

"Amore," Romeo said softly in Italian, "Your mother told me the FBI came to see you. I just saw them leave. Sei a posto? Are you alright?"

Karina hesitated. Then she shook her head. "No, Papa. I don't think I am."

Romeo crossed the room and sat beside his daughter, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Was it about Edel?"

Karina looked at him, startled. "You knew?"

"I suspected. You never let anyone get close to you the way she did. After the fire... you changed."

"I loved her," Karina whispered, voice heavy with the weight of years. "I didn't understand it at first. I thought we were just... inseparable. But it was more than that. And I never told her. I never got the chance."

Karina closed her eyes, leaning into a tight hug, sobbing. "What if she's alive?" she whispered. "What if she's been out there all this time, risking everything—maybe for us, maybe for something else?"

Her father's grip tightened. "Then we will support her."

Karina drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "Papa, can you help me?"

Her father's lips curved into a reassuring smile. "Of course, mia cara. We will do whatever it takes."