Chapter 3

I dragged my suitcase up to the main gate. The security camera scanned my face, beeped once, flashed green, and the iron gate slid open.

Lights glowed in the manor, but not from the west wing where I had stayed. They came from the main house.

The master suite curtains on the second floor were drawn back, and shadows flickered behind the glass.

I stood on the gravel driveway, staring at that window, my hand clamped around the suitcase handle until my knuckles whitened.

The little one went quiet for a second, then whispered, "Mom, don't be scared."

His voice still had that rough accent, but it was impossibly soft and sweet.

I loosened my grip, flexed my fingers, and drew a breath. Time to move.

The suitcase wheels crunched over the gravel.

I hadn't reached the front door when the side entrance swung open.

Peter stood in the doorway, a highball glass in his hand. He froze. His expression shifted from pleasant to as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Ms. Jennings?" His Adam's apple bobbed twice. "What are you—"

"I'm back." I walked past him with my suitcase, my tone as flat as if I were stating it was Tuesday.

Peter pivoted, and the liquor sloshed over the rim, spilling down his hand. "But Mr. Quinn—"

"Is he upstairs?" I asked.

Peter's lips trembled. He neither nodded nor shook his head. That conflicted look settled into every crease of his aging face, seeming to triple his wrinkles on the spot.

I didn't wait for his answer. I changed my shoes and headed straight upstairs.

The main house was a study in mixed styles. A spiral staircase of black walnut swept through the foyer, and the brass railings gleamed coldly under the chandelier.

I climbed in my canvas sneakers, each step silent. Old habit. It was the survival instinct of a stand-in.

I paused at the corner of the second-floor hallway.

The master suite door stood ajar, and a voice drifted out.

A woman's voice, soft and lingering, with a slight upward lilt at the end of every word. "Liam, this painting's still hanging here? I thought you'd have put it away by now."

It was Yvonne.

I leaned against the wall, staying outside.

The little one grumbled in my belly, "Here she comes. The drama queen has arrived. Mom, listen to her. So fake. I'm getting secondhand embarrassment for her even from in here."

Inside the master suite, Liam's voice was so low that I barely caught it. But I heard two words. "Your painting."

I knew the one. It hung directly above the headboard. An oil portrait of a woman's profile. Blurred lines, bold brushstrokes. Rumor had it Liam had painted it while studying abroad. The subject was Yvonne.

I had slept beneath that portrait for two years.

Every morning, the first face I saw upon waking belonged to another woman. That feeling was...

"Mom, stop thinking about it." The kid cut in, voice flat and hard. "The past is the past. What you need to figure out now is how to claim your territory. Now take a deep breath. Don't let them see you're hurting."

I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, I forced every emotion back down my throat.

Then I pushed open the door to the master suite.

The hinges let out a faint creak.

Liam and Yvonne both turned their heads.

Liam sat in an armchair beside the bed, legs crossed, holding a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey. He wore a black loungewear shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the veins and the Patek Philippe on his wrist.

Yvonne stood beneath the painting above the headboard, one hand raised, fingertips still resting on the frame. She wore an ivory dress, her hair loose around her shoulders, her bare feet on the carpet.

Both their expressions froze.

Liam's pupils shrank.

Yvonne's hand slowly dropped from the frame.

The room fell silent.

I counted off nine heartbeats. Too fast.

"Why are you back?" Liam spoke first, his voice cold enough to raise frost.

I stood in the doorway with my suitcase and swept my gaze across the room.

Yvonne's heels sat beside the closet. Her luggage leaned against the corner. A set of skincare products I didn't recognize had appeared on the vanity.

She'd moved in. Already. I'd changed those sheets myself before I left.

The little one chimed in at the perfect moment. "Mom, hold it together. Don't blow up yet. You're the rightful mistress of this house now, not some maid they kicked to the curb. Own it."

I tugged at the corner of my mouth. No smile, but no tears either.