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Emma let out a silent breath. She clutched her boots tighter, edging toward the door.

She paused, looking back toward the bed. In the dark, the woman looked softer, no suit, no sharp edges, only dark hair spilling across the pale sheets. A sudden ache pulled at Emma's chest. On the nightstand, the hotel notepad caught the pale light from the window.

Are you insane? Emma berated herself. You are about to be homeless. Be an adult.

Still, her pride demanded a final word.

She grabbed the silver pen and scribbled a fast, messy note in the dark.

Turns out you’re much better at taking orders than giving them. Couldn’t find my bra... keep it as a souvenir.

Miss Spreadsheets

She tore the sheet off, placed it gently next to the woman's phone, and slipped out of the room, pulling the door shut with a quiet click.

The drive back to Rosebrook was a blur of black asphalt and freezing mist. Emma sat behind the wheel of her truck, the heater blasting, but it couldn't touch the dread settling in her stomach. The night with the hot stranger had been a mind-altering distraction, but the adrenaline was fading now, leaving nothing but the brutal facts of her existence.

She pulled onto the gravel driveway of The Amber House. The Victorian manor sat in the dark, looming and silent. Without Joe's light in the study, it looked hollow.

Emma killed the engine. She clamped both hands around the rim of the steering wheel, thumbs digging into the grooves. She looked at the digital clock on the dashboard.

5:45 AM.

Emma let her head fall forward, resting her forehead against the steering wheel with a ragged sigh. In just over five hours, Victoria Sterling—the ruthless heiress who had ignored Joe for nearly three decades—would walk through those doors and take everything Emma had left.

And Emma had absolutely no idea how to stop her.

The oven blasted Emma with heat the second she pulled the steel door open.

She grabbed her mitts and hauled out three baking sheets. They were lined with scones, rising perfectly and turning golden at the edges. The smell of butter and toasted sugar flooded the kitchen. It was the scent that had anchored her mornings for a decade.

6:35 AM. Emma slid the trays onto the cooling racks, the metal clattering against the counter. Her arms ached, but the fatigue went much deeper than her morning prep. There was a soreness in her thighs, a phantom pressure lingering on her hips, and a tender spot just below her collarbone where teeth had scraped against her skin hours earlier.

She turned on the cold water tap and splashed her face. She needed to focus. The distraction in Oakbridge had served its purpose—for a few reckless hours in the dark, she hadn't thought about Joe. But the sun was up now. Monday had arrived.

For the next three hours, Emma functioned on pure muscle memory. She moved through the dining room carrying trays of pastries, pouring scalding coffee, and dodging the pitying looks of the guests. She loved this house. She loved the morning chaos and the familiar creak of the floorboards. It was hers. Or, at least, it had felt like hers until Tuesday.

By ten-thirty, the breakfast rush was finally over and the tables were cleared.

Emma untied her apron in the empty kitchen and dropped it onto the counter. Her hands were shaking. The adrenaline that had kept her moving since dawn was crashing, leaving a hollow dread in its place.

She walked upstairs to her room, stripped off her flour-dusted clothes, and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed her skin fiercely. She wanted to wash away the smell of bacon grease. She desperately needed to erase the lingering trace of orange blossom and vanilla that still clung to her wrists.

She towel-dried her skin and chose her clothes with care. No one was going to treat her like household staff today, least of all Finch or the visitor. She stepped into her pressed trousers, hauled on a high collar to mask the bruise at her throat, and twisted her hair into a neat bun. Ready to hold her ground.

At ten minutes to eleven, Emma walked down the main staircase and headed straight for the breakfast room.

The service was over, the tables cleared and wiped down, leaving the space vast and quiet. Outside the leaded windows, the English rain tapped a steady rhythm against the glass. The air still carried the faint aroma of warm vanilla, roasted coffee beans, and toasted sourdough, but the lively morning chatter was gone. The empty chairs were tucked neatly under the tables; no one would disturb them here for the rest of the morning.

Emma took a steadying breath. She moved to the long oak sideboard by the bay window to arrange the bone china teacups. Arthur Finch had requested a pot of tea and biscuits for the meeting. It felt like a concession. It felt like submitting to the people who were coming to take her home in the very room she had poured her sweat into for fifteen years. But her pride wouldn't allow her to be a poor host, even to her enemies.

At exactly eleven o'clock, the brass knocker echoed through the foyer. Emma smoothed her hands down the front of her trousers. She squared her shoulders, walked to the entrance, and pulled the oak door open. Arthur Finch stood on the porch. He clutched his leather briefcase, offering a tight-lipped, condescending smile. Behind him stood two younger men in identical suits.

"Emma, my dear," Arthur said. "Thank you for hosting us on such short notice. I know this is a difficult week."

"Good morning, Arthur," Emma replied. She stepped aside. "Please, come in."

The three men stepped into the foyer, their shoes clicking loudly against the hardwood.