Chapter 1 - The Midnight Call
The glowing screen illuminated the darkness of the bedroom Maren had inhabited alone for one thousand four hundred and sixty days.
Silas: You alive?
Her fingers hovered over the glass. Her pulse was steady, cold, and calculated, running entirely on pure adrenaline. Downstairs, Daphne’s syrupy laughter echoed through the vaulted corridors, punctuated by the clinking of champagne flutes celebrating the supposed golden heir swelling inside Brynn Ashford’s cashmere-clad belly. Four years of blood, sweat, and seventy-hour workweeks keeping Pryce Development from bankruptcy, and all it took was an ultrasound to erase her existence in their eyes.
Maren: Breathing. He brought her. She’s seven months along.
Silas: Predictable boy. Did he ask about the books?
Maren: He doesn’t even know what year the fiscal calendar starts.
Three dots danced on the screen before his reply appeared.
Silas: Good. Let him play house. Saturday night, you wear the emerald dress. The one that cuts down the spine. I have the port contracts ready for your signature.
A quiet, feral warmth ignited in her chest. Silas Rowan was not a savior. He was a ruthless predator who ruled Boston’s shipping docks, high-end private equity, and shadowed back alleys with absolute discretion. Men who crossed Silas Rowan didn't just lose money; they ceased to exist in polite society.
Two years ago, when Pryce Development’s banks had moved to foreclose on their flagship harbor property thanks to Nolan’s reckless offshore gambling, Maren hadn't panicked. She had driven down to Rowan Maritime’s private terminal at two in the morning, walked past four armed guards, and laid out an architectural restructuring plan so sharp, so brilliant, that Silas had set down his glass of scotch, stared at her for a long minute, and offered her fifty million dollars in private liquidity.
The terms were secret, signed under an ironclad shell entity: Maren personally controlled forty-nine percent of Harbor Point’s voting shares, with Rowan Capital backing her proxy. Nolan and Daphne had assumed Walter pulled strings through old fraternity buddies. In reality, Maren had traded sleep, tears, and innocence to hold the empire by its throat.
A sharp, impatient knock shook her bedroom door.
Maren slid the phone under her pillow and opened the door. Nolan stood in the hallway, having shed his coat, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and vintage wine. His jaw was clenched, his blue eyes dark with the irritation of a man who believed the world was created solely for his entertainment.
""Brynn needs extra pillows,"" Nolan said, not looking at her face, but looking past her shoulder into the room. ""The guest rooms down the hall are damp. She needs the heated floor in here.""
Maren didn't flinch. She simply leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. ""Call room service at the Four Seasons, Nolan. You have credit cards, don't you? Or did your grandfather finally freeze your allowance?""
Nolan’s hand slammed against the wood beside her ear, his frame towering over her. It was a classic intimidator tactic, the exact posture he used to bully junior architects before he fled the country. ""Don’t test me, Maren. I let Walter put you on the payroll out of charity because your foster family left you penniless. But this is my house. That child is my blood. You’re just the girl who held down the fort while I lived my life.""
Maren looked at his hand, then lifted her gaze to his eyes, utterly unblinking. Her lack of fear visibly startled him.
""You think you lived your life?"" she murmured softly, her voice smooth like crushed velvet. ""You ran away because you couldn't handle Walter’s expectations. You ran away with a woman who only loves you when your black card clears. And now you’re back because the trust fund ran dry in Monaco.""
Nolan pulled back as if slapped, his skin flushing crimson. ""Saturday at the Stroud Gala, you walk in on my arm. You tell the board members that we’re amicable, that Brynn is a private family matter, and you hand over the Harbor Point proxy votes to me. Walter is old and losing his mind, but you and I both know who the public trusts.""
""Do they?"" Maren tilted her head, offering him a ghost of a smile. ""We'll find out on Saturday, won't we?""
May you like
She closed the door directly in his face and turned the heavy brass deadbolt. Behind her, Nolan cursed viciously and kicked the wood, but she didn't hear him. She walked back to the window, watching the rain sweep across Boston Harbor, her phone buzzing once more against her nightstand.
Silas: Don't let the dog bark too loud. We own the kennel now.
