My throat closed up.
“Please. Just tell me if they’re okay. If Lucia’s safe.”
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.” His expression didn’t soften as he raked his gaze over me from head to toe. “Good day, miss.”
The door shut firmly in my face.
I stood there on the porch for a long moment, wind whipping through the pines, the hollow ache in my chest deepening into something rawer.
He was right, in a way. If Ben wanted me to know, he’d have found a way to bring me into the loop. But that didn’t stop the worry from clawing deeper, about Lucia most of all, but about him and Henry too.
I turned and walked back to my car, gravel crunching under my boots.
Fine.
They could hide behind gates and standoffish staff all they wanted.
I’d be back tomorrow. And the day after. And every goddamn day until someone else answered the damn door — or until I got answers about what the hell was going on. Or until I broke that fucking door down myself, if I had to.
I wasn’t done yet.
Not by a long shot.
I started the car but didn’t drive away immediately. I sat there staring at the mansion, at the dark windows that might be watching me back.
Three days until Christmas Eve. Three days until Vivian came home to claim everything.
If Ben didn’t marry someone by midnight on the 24th, she would win… and I was the only person he had ever said he wanted to marry. Even after everything. Even after I walked out.
The realization made my pulse stumble. If I was still that person — still the one choice he’d willingly make — then whatever happened next wasn’t just about inheritance or pride. It was about what would happen if the clock ran out before I got the chance to see him again.
The realization hit me like cold water down my spine. I wasn’t just worried about Lucia anymore. I was worried about Ben losing everything he had left if I couldn’t find him in time.
Chapter
Thirty-Six
Chrissy
December 22, 7:45 AM
I didn’t havework anymore.
Which meant I didn’t have any excuses left.
After another restless night of tossing and turning in a nightgown that smelled faintly of the lodge’s woodsmoke, I drove straight to Ashgrove House again, for the second day in a row, now. My breath fogged the windshield in the cold morning air. I was running on coffee, stubbornness, and that persistent gnaw of worry in my gut about Lucia.
The massive gates were closed this time, but I parked anyway and walked up the long drive, gravel crunching under my boots like brittle bones.
The same house manager opened the door before I could knock, his uniform impeccable, and his expression as polished and unyielding as the day before.
“Let me guess,” I said, voice flat from exhaustion. “He’s still not in residence, is he?”
A flicker of something — annoyance? discomfort? — crossed his face before it smoothed back to beige neutrality.
“No, ma’am. He is not.”
“It’s been two days now,” I pressed, hugging my arms around myself against the chill. “The hunting lodge was ransacked and empty. Do you at least know if they’re okay? More importantly, do you know if Lucia’s safe?”
