Darian Wolfe
I stood there, stunned at who I saw, "Hello Darian." Her words hung in the air. There she was—Linda Maurice. Her perfume hit me first, a rosy, oriental wave that dragged me back decades—to a mansion that had been both salvation and cage.
I stepped inside, she was in her early forties, doing nothing to dull the sharp beauty I’d known since I was a boy. Flynn Maurice’s youngest daughter, the billionaire who’d rescued me from the orphanage after my father’s death, promised me a future. A promise that came with chains.
"Hey, Linda," I said, forcing a casual edge as I turned to my closet, sliding my watch off with a flick of my wrist. "What a surprise."
"Seems like you weren’t expecting me at all," she replied, brushing her hair back with that deliberate grace she’d always wi
