“Callie, wait—!”
The room was sweltering, heavy with the cloying scent of sweet floral perfume and sweat.
And there she was.
A platinum-blonde woman in her late twenties was propped up against the headboard of the king-sized bed, the white sheet pulled casually up to her waist. She held a crystal glass of white wine in one hand, looking at my faded clothes and mess of hair with lazy, amused cruelty.
“So,” she drawled, taking a slow sip. “This is the little renovation project you’re always complaining about?”
My entire world shattered into sharp, jagged pieces.
The sweet, loving man from the phone last night—the man who promised to hold me, who said he was fighting for my family’s legacy—disappeared into thin air.
“Who is she?” I whispered, my finger shaking uncontrollably as I point
