SAVING LEONATA

Chapter One

Regan Price was not a man who found himself surprised often. Fifteen years in the business of finding people who didn't want to be found had inoculated him against surprise. People were predictable, even in their attempts to be unpredictable. They followed patterns they couldn't see.

Yet as he examined the picture on his laptop screen and contrasted it with the woman who was crossing the street fifty yards away, a feeling that was uncomfortably close to surprise crept into his mind.

"Son of a b***h," he muttered, bringing down his camera. "It's actually her."

The woman who was Leonata Lancaster based on the birth certificate in his file, and Lila Marlowe based on her current driver's license headed toward the small veterinary clinic where she had been employed for the previous four months with practiced efficiency. Her dark hair was in a bun and pulled back highlighting her face's sharp angles. She wore a faded blue sweater and basic jeans that were chosen more for practicality than fashion and she didn't wear makeup.

It was nothing like the slick business pictures of Leonata Lancaster the heir to the Lancaster Holdings empire who had allegedly perished three years ago in an explosion that had garnered worldwide attention along with her father and brothers.

A call came in and Regan's phone vibrated. He checked the screen: LANCASTER, VICTOR.

"Price," he answered, voice neutral.

"Have you found her?" Victor Lancaster's cultured voice was tight with impatience.

"I'm still verifying."

"Three days have passed."

"And at least three more days will be required," Regan said observing the woman open the Coastal Paws Veterinary Clinics side door. "This is not something you rush."

"Mr Price, you’re not getting paid for being cautious. I'm paying you for results."

Regan felt a familiar irritation rise. Billionaires were all the same—they believed money could bend reality to their timeline.

"With respect, Mr. Lancaster, you're paying me for my expertise. And my expertise says we verify identity before making contact." He paused, watching the lights come on inside the clinic. "Especially when the subject is supposed to be dead."

A heavy silence followed, filled with the unspoken power struggle between a man accustomed to giving orders and one accustomed to following only his judgment.

"Three more days," Lancaster finally conceded. "Then I want a full report and a plan for extraction."

Extraction. An interesting choice of words for retrieving a family member.

Regan ended the call before Lancaster could make more demands saying “I’ll be in touch.”

His focus returned to the clinic where he could see the woman who went by Lila Marlowe through the front windows pacing the reception area and switching on computers getting ready for the day.

Her movements were efficient, practiced. Nothing in her demeanor suggested she was living under a false identity, running from a past that included one of the most powerful families in America.

Nothing except the vigilance. Even from this distance, Regan could see it—the way she positioned herself to monitor entrances, the practiced scan of surroundings each time she approached a window, the deliberate neutrality of her expressions. The hyperawareness of someone who knew what it meant to be hunted.

Regan opened the file folder beside him on the passenger seat, reviewing the information Victor Lancaster had provided. Leonata Lancaster, 28, the only daughter and youngest child of Dominic Lancaster, CEO of Lancaster Holdings. Harvard Business School, MBA with distinction. Fast-tracked through various departments at Lancaster Holdings, most recently serving as Chief Strategy Officer.

Presumed dead alongside her father and two brothers in an explosion at the family's Manhattan penthouse three years ago. Cause of explosion: initially ruled accidental gas leak, later reclassified as probable homicide following forensic investigation. Case still open.

And now, somehow, allegedly alive and working at a small-town veterinary clinic three thousand miles away.

The question, as always in Regan's line of work, was why.

Why would the heir to billions fake her death? Why would she abandon a life of luxury for minimum wage and anonymity? Why would she run?

And perhaps most importantly: who was she running from?

Regan started his car, a nondescript sedan chosen specifically for its forgettability. He would observe for a few more days, establish patterns, build a profile. Leonata Lancaster—or Lila Marlowe—had gone to extraordinary lengths to disappear. People didn't do that without reason.

In his experience, they either had something to hide or something to fear.

Sometimes both.

As he pulled away from the curb, Regan found himself returning to the photograph on his laptop. Corporate Leonata with her perfect blonde hair, designer suit, and practiced smile—a woman bred for boardrooms and billion-dollar decisions. Nothing like the wary, watchful woman who had just entered the clinic.

Yet something about her—the careful economy of movement, the deliberate self-containment—kept him looking longer than he should.

In fifteen years of finding people, Regan had learned one central truth: everyone was running from something. The question was always whether they deserved to be caught.

And this time, he wasn't certain of the answer.

The call came in just after midnight. Regan had been expecting it.

"You're working late, Melissa," he answered, minimizing the surveillance footage on his laptop.

"So are you," his contact replied. Melissa Chen had been his inside source at Lancaster Holdings for three years—a senior analyst with access to information not available to the public, and a moral compass that had led her to question certain company practices. For a generous consulting fee, she occasionally shared those concerns with Regan.

"What did you find?"

"Not over the phone," she said, her voice tense. "Check your secure email in fifteen minutes. And Regan? Be careful with this one."

The call ended before he could question further. Melissa wasn't given to melodrama, which made her warning all the more concerning.

While waiting for her email, Regan reviewed his observations from the first day of surveillance. Lila Marlowe—he found himself using her new name even in his thoughts—had worked a full shift at the veterinary clinic, interacting minimally with clients and colleagues. At 5:30 PM precisely, she had locked up alone and walked the eight blocks to a small rented cottage near the beach. No stops, no conversations, and nothing to suggest community connections or relationships.

A woman living as a ghost among the living.

His encrypted email pinged with an incoming message from an anonymous account—Melissa's usual protocol. The subject line read only: VERIFY IDENTITY BEFORE PROCEEDING.

The message contained a single attachment—a video file with no description. Regan's security protocols automatically scanned it before he opened it.

The security camera footage was from the night of the Lancaster explosion three years ago according to the timestamp. In what looked to be a high-end apartment complex, it displayed a service corridor. A few seconds passed with no action. A figure then staggered through a door that had exploded open.

Regan narrowed his eyes and leaned in. A woman's clothing was ripped and burned and her left arm was heavily bleeding. Her face was partially hidden by smoke and dirt but as soon as she briefly looked up at the camera it was instantly recognizable.

Leonata Lancaster. Alive. Escaping the explosion that had supposedly killed her.

The footage continued for another thirty seconds as she made her way down the corridor and through an emergency exit. Then the screen went black.

A text message followed:

RECOVERED SURVEILLANCE FROM CLASSIFIED ARCHIVES. SOMEONE TRIED VERY HARD TO ERASE IT.

Regan considered the implications. If someone had deleted this footage, they were actively covering up the fact that Leonata Lancaster had survived. The question was: who? And why?

A second message arrived:

LOOKING INTO PROJECT KINGMAKER. SEEMS CONNECTED. HIGHLY CLASSIFIED. L.L. ACCESSED FILES DAY BEFORE EXPLOSION.

Project Kingmaker. The name meant nothing to Regan, but the timing suggested significance. If Leonata had accessed classified files the day before the explosion that killed her family, there might be a connection.

He closed his laptop and moved to the window of his motel room, looking out at the quiet coastal town that had become her refuge. Sleepy streets, modest buildings, salty air—as far from the Manhattan power corridors as one could get while remaining in the continental United States.

What had she seen that made this necessary?

And more pressingly—was Victor Lancaster trying to find his niece to protect her, or to silence her?

Regan had not yet gathered enough information to respond to either query. But one thing was becoming obvious: finding a missing heiress wasn’t the only task at hand. This was something more complex, more dangerous.

The kind of case that required understanding before action.

He would continue his surveillance. Learn her patterns, her habits, and her weaknesses. Build a profile not just of who she was now, but of who she had been. Understand what she was running from.

And then decide if she was worth saving.

Because that's what Regan Price did—he fixed broken things. Broken people. Broken messes. Broken lives.

But first, he had to determine if Leonata Lancaster was truly broken, or if she was simply trying to prevent something else from breaking.

Something worth dying for. Or at least, worth pretending to die for.