Amara’s POV
If the Poconos were a natural winter, the Wolfe Mansion was a man-made glacier.
I had been moved. Not out of the house—not yet—but out of our life. My things had been packed by silent, stony-faced maids and relocated to the guest wing. It was a beautiful suite of rooms, decorated in shades of taupe and silver, but it felt like a high-end prison cell. There were no photos of my father here. No scent of Adrian’s sandalwood cologne.
I was no longer the "Lady of the House." I was a corporate liability under house arrest.
For three days, I didn't see him. I heard the roar of his Porsche in the driveway at 2:00 AM and the heavy thud of the front door at 6:00 AM. He was buried in the "war room," as the staff called it, rebuilding the empire that had almost crumbled.
When I finall
