Ina stared at the screen. Her father never called her unless it was to demand she attend a PR event with Faron.
She swiped the green button. "Father?"
"Ina!" Reginald's voice was a hysterical, unrecognizable roar. In the background, the deafening wail of fire truck sirens pierced the audio.
"The Long Island estate!" Reginald screamed, his words stumbling over each other. "The gas lines! It exploded!"
Ina's brain flatlined. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. "Where is Euna?" she asked. Her twin sister, Euna, lived in the guest house of that estate. But her father’s next words shattered her.
“She went to the main house after dinner!” Reginald sobbed. “She said she wanted to borrow a book from the west wing library. I told her not to bother, but she wouldn’t listen. Oh God, the whole west wing is gone.”
A guttural, ugly sob tore from her father's throat. "They can't find her. The whole west wing is gone."
The phone slipped from Ina's numb fingers. It hit the hardwood floor, the glass screen shattering into a spiderweb pattern.
The air was sucked out of the room. Ina lunged forward. She grabbed her Range Rover keys from the console table. She did not grab a coat. She sprinted out the door in her black turtleneck and jeans.
She reached the underground parking garage. She threw herself into the driver's seat and slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The heavy SUV tires shrieked against the concrete as she sped out.
She hit the Long Island Expressway. Ina gripped the leather steering wheel. Her knuckles were bone-white. She pressed the accelerator to the floor.
She swerved aggressively between cars, ignoring the blaring horns and speed limit signs. Hot tears blinded her vision. She angrily wiped them away with the back of her hand, leaving red streaks on her cheeks.
Miles away, she saw it. A massive pillar of thick, toxic black smoke billowing into the gray autumn sky.
She reached the perimeter of the Holman estate. The area was a war zone. Bright yellow police tape cordoned off the entire block. Dozens of police cruisers and fire engines flashed blinding red and blue lights.
Ina threw the car into park, shoved the door open, and ran toward the yellow tape.
Two massive police officers stepped in her path, blocking her.
"Let me through!" Ina screamed, fighting against their heavy arms. "I am family! My sister is in there!"
The officers looked at her with pity, but their grip remained firm. "Ma'am, it is an active hazard zone. You cannot pass."
Ina stopped struggling. She looked past the officers' shoulders.
The grand, historic west wing of her childhood home was gone. It was reduced to a smoking, blackened crater of shattered bricks and twisted metal beams.
From the center of the ruins, four firefighters wearing heavy gear slowly walked out. They were carrying a black, heavy-duty body bag.
The zipper on the bag was not pulled all the way to the top. A small piece of fabric hung out of the gap.
It was Euna's favorite vintage sundress.
Ina's lungs collapsed. All the strength vanished from Ina's legs. She collapsed onto the hard, freezing asphalt. Her knees hit the ground with a sickening thud.
She opened her mouth to scream, but her vocal cords paralyzed. No sound came out. Only a silent, agonizing gasp as tears poured down her face in a violent flood.
Directly across the street, parked perfectly in the shadows of a large oak tree, sat a black Rolls-Royce Phantom.
The rear passenger window silently rolled down halfway.
Buren Warner sat in the luxurious darkness. His face was entirely devoid of emotion. His cold, dark eyes were locked onto the fragile woman kneeling on the asphalt.
In the front seat, his executive assistant, Robin, turned around. He handed a thick, manila envelope through the partition.
"Sir," Robin said respectfully. "This is the complete background file on Ina Holman. It details the Holman family's imminent bankruptcy, and the hidden financial anomalies of her ex-boyfriend, Faron Levine."
Buren took the envelope. He pulled out the crisp white papers. His eyes rapidly scanned the financial data and the private investigator's notes.
He tossed the papers onto the leather seat beside him.
He looked back out the window. He watched Ina's shoulders shake with violent sobs. She was completely broken. Completely vulnerable.
Buren's jaw tightened. A dark, possessive hunger flared in his eyes. He tapped his index finger slowly against the leather armrest.
"Robin," Buren's voice was a low, absolute command. "Contact the creditors. Buy up the Holman family's debt. All of it."
"Yes, sir," Robin replied.
The tinted window of the Rolls-Royce glided up, sealing the billionaire inside his silent fortress. Buren had made his decision. He was going to own her.
