The Billionaire Heir Called It a Romantic Mountain Trip Until My Psychic Grandmother Told Me to Ask Why His Cabin Was Booked for Three

We spent the next two hours in the dim, herb-scented kitchen planning a war.

Grandma Eleanor didn't give me a gun or a knife. Instead, she retrieved a small, heavy leather pouch from the back of her pantry—a pouch that smelled sharply of dried sage, iron filings, and something earthy and wild. Inside lay a smooth, dark river stone carved with ancient notches, and a vial of dark, pungent oil.

“Keep the stone in your coat pocket,” she instructed, pressing the pouch into my palm. “If fear tries to swallow you, touch the notches. Remember who you are. You are a Whitcomb woman. We do not break easily.”

She also handed me an old, untraceable burner phone with a pre-paid SIM card already installed. “My number is the only one saved in it. Call me the moment you see who the third person is. Do not hesitate.”

I drove back to the Ardmore condo with my mind racing at a thousand miles an hour.

When I unlocked the front door at noon, Julian was sitting at the kitchen island drinking black coffee, wearing a gray cashmere sweater that made him look like a catalog model. He looked up, smiling that warm, disarming smile that used to make my knees weak.

“There you are,” he said smoothly, standing up to plant a light kiss on my cheek. “I was wondering where my favorite wife went so early.”

Favorite wife?

The phrase dropped into my brain like a lead weight. Did he plan on having more than one? Was I just a temporary fixture in his grand design?

“Just picking up a few extra groceries for the cabin,” I lied smoothly, holding up a brown paper bag filled with random snacks I had bought on the way home. “I wanted to make sure we had everything so we wouldn't have to stop on the drive.”

“You’re amazing,” Julian murmured, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close.

I forced myself not to stiffen. I forced myself to lean into his chest, breathing in his expensive cologne, while my mind screamed.

“I’ll pack my bags,” I said, pulling away with a soft smile.

Upstairs in the bedroom, I methodically packed two heavy sweaters, hiking boots, jeans, and thick socks. Slipping Grandma Eleanor’s leather pouch deep into the lining of my suitcase, and keeping the burner phone tucked safely in the hidden pocket of my winter coat, I felt a grim resolve settle over my bones.

At 1:00 PM on Friday, Julian loaded our bags into the back of his black SUV.

The sky above Philadelphia was the color of wet slate, threatening sleet as we merged onto the Schuylkill Expressway, heading north toward the Poconos.

For the first hour, the drive was quiet. Julian played soft indie folk music on the stereo, humming along occasionally, driving with one hand casually resting on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

“You’re awfully quiet today, babe,” Julian said after we passed Allentown, glancing at me sideways. “Excited for the woods?”

“Just thinking about work,” I lied, staring out the passenger window as the urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills and dense pine forests. “And enjoying the quiet.”

“You’ll get all the quiet you want,” Julian said, a subtle, hard edge slipping into his voice. “Out there, nobody can hear you scream.”

He laughed immediately afterward, turning it into a joke, but the sound scraped against my spine like jagged ice.

By 4:00 PM, the sun had dipped below the jagged mountain peaks, plunging the winding two-lane highway into deep, shadowy twilight. The GPS on the dashboard announced that we were twenty minutes away from Lake Naomi.

The cell phone service bars in the top corner of my screen dropped from four to two, then flickered down to one.

Julian pulled the SUV off the main paved road onto a narrow, unpaved gravel track overhung by towering, black pine trees. Branches scraped against the roof of the vehicle like skeletal fingers.