And by something, I mean a damn estate.
An old colonial monster sitting behind a line of mature trees, six bedrooms, four bathrooms, formal living room, parlor, dining room, three-car garage, indoor spa, outdoor pool, and a second living space off the kitchen big enough to land a helicopter in.
The second I walk through it, I know.
The acoustics in that back room are solid.
High ceilings.
Thick walls.
Perfect for soundproofing.
Perfect for building a home studio.
“What’s wrong with this place?” I ask Steven as we stand in the cavernous foyer.
He blinks. “Excuse me, Mr. Mars?”
“Why isn’t anyone living here?”
It’s too clean. Too perfect. Too available.
“Oh! Well,” he says, adjusting his cuffs, “the couple who just completed the remodel ended up divorcing. Neither wanted to give the house up to the other, so now it’s on the market.”
Ah.
A casualty of love.
Fitting.
I glance around again.
Empty rooms. Sunlight pouring through tall windows. No furniture. No history.
A blank slate.
“Fuck it,” I say. “Put in an offer. Cash.”
Steven’s smile stretches wider.
“I want the house by tomorrow,” I continue. “And I want contractors lined up. I’ll need some remodeling done.”
“Of course, Mr. Mars.”
He practically floats out the door.
Nate just shakes his head.
“You move fast.”
“Always have.”
And maybe that’s the problem.
Two days later, I’m standing in the middle of my new kitchen, listening to the quiet.
No club noise.