Snow blanketed the Hawthorne estate like a silken shroud, concealing the tension coiled beneath its frosty serenity. The night had passed slowly, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. But morning brought no peace—only a crispness that bit through the air and whispered of threats not yet realized.
Scarlett stood in the hallway, dressed in fitted black slacks, a thick ivory sweater, and boots that made no sound against the polished marble floor. Her eyes were focused on the tall windows that framed the icy gardens beyond. The snowfall was soft now, drifting lazily through the sky. But the serenity outside stood in cruel contrast to the storm brewing within.
The entire estate was on alert. After the Mercers’ intrusion, Michael had doubled security. New men—mercenaries, trained and deadly
