Roselyn Sullivan’s apartment was a masterpiece of modern luxury, marble countertops gleamed under the soft glow of pendant lights, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Atlantic like a living painting, and designer furniture sat in perfect arrangement, untouched and sterile. It was a place where nothing ever seemed out of place, until now.

A chilling stillness lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the warmth and glamour that once radiated from every corner. The scent of expensive vanilla and sandalwood candles mixed with something colder, something metallic. Death had settled here, disrupting the illusion of perfection.

Roselyn’s body lay sprawled across the velvet chaise lounge, her once-glowing deep brown skin now dull under the morning light. Her high cheekbones, usually enhanced by soft, golden hour lighting, appeared sharper in the shadows of death.

Tightly coiled curls, always meticulously styled, spilled over her shoulders, now tangled and lifeless. Her dark almond-shaped eyes, which had once captivated thousands, were frozen open, staring at something unseen.