Lucia Vance stood twenty feet away, leaning against the hood of a white Range Rover that looked like it had never seen a speck of dirt. She was tall—taller than I'd expected. Maybe five-nine in her flat leather boots. Her camel coat was expensive wool, tailored sharp at the shoulders, and she wore it open despite the freezing wind.
Her hair was exactly like the photos: glossy, dark, pulled back in a low ponytail that the wind kept catching.
She was beautiful.Reallybeautiful. I had known that from the screen, but seeing it in three dimensions was different. The photos were curated; this was raw. She had the kind of face that held your attention without trying—high cheekbones, a full mouth, dark eyes that watched me approach with a mix of defiance and terror.
She looked like she belonged here. Standing in front of a half-finished dream, unbothered by the mess.
Behind her, the house rose up like a skeleton against the gray sky.
It was massive. A timber frame structure of raw yellow pine and black iron brackets. The beams soared upward, framing a cathedral ceiling that had no roof yet. It was open to the elements, exposed, violent in its unfinished state.
I stopped ten feet from her.
She pushed off the Range Rover and took a step forward. Her hands stayed buried in the deep pockets of her coat.
"Olivia," she said.
My name in her mouth felt like a violation.
I didn't respond. I just stood there, arms rigid at my sides, letting the wind bite through my sweater. I'd expected someone who sounded like she did on the phone, raw and breaking. But the woman in front of me had pulled the armor back on.
She swallowed, her throat working. "Thank you for coming. I know this is..." She trailed off, looking down at the gravel. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"For what?" My voice was steady, colder than the air. "For sleeping with my husband? For being the reason he was on this road when he died? Pick one, Lucia."
She flinched, her eyes squeezing shut for a second.
"All of it," she whispered.
I heard Ben shift behind me, his boots scraping on the stone. He was close enough that I could feel his presence, a solid wall at my back, but he didn't speak.
"How long?" I asked.
Lucia’s jaw tightened. "Does it matter now?"
"Yes."
She looked at the house behind her, then back at me. "We met a year and a half ago. But... the rest of it? The affair? That was later. Maybe… fourteen months."
"Fourteen months," I repeated.
"We met professionally," she said quickly, as if the distinction mattered. "I bought this land. I needed an architect who understood timber framing, and someone recommended Ryan."
I frowned. Ryan did timber framing, but usually for porches or great rooms. Not a beast like this.
"So he was your architect," I said.
"He was my partner," she corrected.
The word hung in the air.
"We formed an LLC," she said. "Fifty-fifty. I found the land, he designed it. We hired a general contractor, but Ryan oversaw everything. He wanted to make sure it was built right. We were going to flip it. It was a spec house."
I looked up at the massive beams, at this monster of a house.
"He never told me," I said. "Why wouldn't he tell me?"
Lucia wrapped her coat tighter around herself. "Because he was scared you’d talk him out of it."
