The screech of tires against the driveway of the Harrington manor was the first warning of the storm.
Tricey Harrington stepped out before the engine had even fully cut. Behind her, her daughter Shaila followed, her face was a mirror image of her mother’s smug arrogance.
They marched toward the entrance, only to be met by a wall of bodyguards.
Two of August’s personal security details stepped forward, their faces as expressionless as the stone gargoyles on the roof.
“Madam,” the lead guard said.
“I’m afraid we cannot let you enter. Young Master’s orders.”
Tricey stopped. Her eyes narrowed into slits.
“August?” she spat. “He’s protecting that vixen? Step aside. I am his mother. I don’t need an invitation to enter my son’s home.”
“I’m sorry, Madam,” the guard repeated, not m
