The grandfather clock in the Northwest Manor's main hall ticked with unbearable precision—each second stretching longer than Pacifica's patience. She slumped across a velvet chaise lounge, idly twirling a strand of perfectly bleached hair around her finger while glaring at the oil paintings of her ancestors. Ugh. If I have to stare at Great-Uncle Thaddeus' smug forehead one more time, I'm throwing this candelabra at it. Her phone buzzed on the marble side table. Pacifica snatched it up, scrolling through a dozen unanswered texts from country club sycophants (Pacifica, pls come to brunch!!!! We miss u queen!!!). She rolled her eyes so hard her purple-shadowed lids nearly stuck. As if watching Tiffany spill mimosa on her third chin counts as entertainment. A distant echo of footsteps made her perk up—until the maid scurried past with a dustpan. Fantastic. Even the staff’s allergic to fun today. She flung herself backward dramatically, one arm draped over her face. Someone please drag me out of this mausoleum before I start naming the dust bunnies.