I would take back everything they had stolen.
I watched Killian look up toward my window. I made myself as visible as possible behind the frosted glass. He blinked, as if he’d seen a ghost. I smiled.
I had my weapon.
I threw the sandwich in the trash and began to undress. With every layer I shed, my hands trembled with anticipation. Tonight, I would meet the dangerous man I was convinced could take me off my shelf and out of this attic forever.
Chapter 2: Killian
I hadn’t been back to Florida in years. I’d spent that time traveling the world, protecting people whose names I couldn’t speak out loud. My last contract—a high-stakes detail for a diplomat in Brazil—had just wrapped when my grandfather called with an ultimatum.
I never expected to be trading my tactical gear for a tuxedo, but a week ago, My grandfather Silas Hart had made it clear… I was coming back to the states to get married or he’d disown me before he died.
I shut everything down for at least a year. No contracts. No travel. No distractions.
In two weeks, I’d leave Florida and head to New Orleans—spend some time with my grandfather. My men were happy about the break.
I stared up at the Landry mansion, located right outside of Homosassa. It was a white-pillared monstrosity that looked more like a haunted house than a home, with willow trees and creeping branches that seemed to be trying to strangle the structure. The air was thick with the scent of moss and decay—every breath tasted faintly of earth, old tree, and something sour. I could feel the house watching me, a sense of foreboding that seemed to seep from the mansion itself.
My gaze drifted to the highest point—a small, frosted attic window tucked under the eaves. A shadow moved. A curvy silhouette that felt like it was looking directly at me was gone before I could even blink.
"Boss? You see a ghost? You look like you did." Cartier’s asked as he stepped out of the driver’s side. My second-in-command was an ex-Marine, built like John Henry, and he didn't miss a thing. I brought him along because I didn’t want to be there alone. He followed my gaze to the roofline, his eyes narrowing.
"Maybe," I replied. "Thought I saw someone in the attic."
“There shouldn’t be.”
“Probably just my imagination.”
“Probably." Cartier leaned against the door. "And you're sure you don’t want to call your grandpa? Tell him the bride has changed from Chloe Landry to Olivia Landry?”
I shrugged. "He wants me married to the Landry girl. He didn’t specify which, and I don’t think it matters enough to interrupt his recovery. Grandpa was back in New Orleans for knee surgery; for someone with a terminal illness, he’s still getting around well at seventy-six."
“If you say so.”
“I do.” I didn’t care which daughter I would marry and ignore. These high-society vultures were all the same. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Before we could take two steps, the doors opened and out walked Arthur Landry. He was an orphan who had married into a good family and taken their name. He wore an expensive suit and a smile that was too bright—the kind of look a man wears when he’s trying to sell you the air you're breathing. He had "grifter" written all over him.
"Mr. Hart! Welcome, welcome," Arthur boomed. "Two weeks should give you and Olivia plenty of time to getacquainted before the formal announcement. I hope all is well with your grandfather. A hell of a fighter, that man."
"He is," I agreed, my voice flat.
I was only here for the old man. He was dying of cancer and afraid of me being in this world alone; he thought I’d get myself killed playing war and hoped a woman would settle me. This arranged marriage was his final wish—a pact forged in some foxhole in a war long forgotten. I didn't care about the Landry food plants or their 'old money.' I’d marry the girl and divorce her a year after he passed. I had my own firm to run; I didn’t need outdated traditions holding me hostage.
Inside, the air conditioning was cranked so high it felt like stepping into a morgue. Arthur started a rehearsed tour, gushing over crown molding and Italian marble. He talked as if I were there to buy the house rather than bail out his failing business.
"This wing was added in the twenties," he said, gesturing to glass cases. "The antiques in here are priceless. This porcelain alone is worth a fortune.”
I barely looked. "I’m sure.”
He led us into the grand parlor, where the smell of expensive lilies was thick enough to choke on. A woman stood at the head of the table, hands folded: Ava. Beside her waited a younger, glossier reflection of her.
"And here she is," Arthur beamed. "The jewel of the Landry line. My daughter, Olivia."
Olivia stepped forward, her smile perfectly manicured. She was pretty, but it was a manufactured beauty—lips, hair, and curves all clearly bought and paid for.
"Killian," she said. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet the man who I’m going to spend the rest of my life with."
