The Lincoln moved through the city like a hearse. Anna stared out the window. The glittering towers of Manhattan blurred past.
Her phone buzzed.
“Just a little reminder, Anna,” Brenda’s voice oozed through the speaker. “Alistair isn’t your real grandfather. He adopted you. You owe him everything. If you do anything to jeopardize this marriage, remember it’s his life you’ll be ruining, not just your own.”
The call ended.
Brenda’s words, meant to wound, did the opposite. They turned Anna’s resolve into something unbreakable. Her debt to Alistair wasn’t about blood. It was about love. And she would do anything to protect him.
The car left the city, winding through tree-lined roads on Long Island. It finally slowed before a set of towering iron gates. A brass plaque gleamed in the late afternoon sun: Livingston Estate.
The driver opened her door, face blank. “We’re here, miss.” He placed her single, simple suitcase on the gravel, got back in the car, and drove away.
Anna took a breath and walked toward the gates. They swung open automatically.
She’d taken no more than ten steps onto the sweeping driveway when two blurs of black and white shot out from the shrubbery.
Two Dobermans. Massive. Muscles rippling under their coats. They charged her, growls vibrating through the soles of her shoes.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. But she didn’t retreat. Panic was a death sentence. She stood her ground, placing her suitcase in front of her like a small shield.
She looked directly into the eyes of the lead dog—the black one. No fear. Just deep, steady calm.
The dogs skidded to a halt a few feet away. Their barks turned into confused, wary whines. Something was wrong. This human didn’t smell of fear.
Slowly, deliberately, Anna lowered herself into a crouch. Made herself smaller. Less of a threat. She extended one hand, palm up. From deep in her throat, she made a low, soft clicking sound—a noise she’d learned from a mother wolf in the mountains behind her home. A sound of reassurance.
The dogs tilted their heads. Their aggressive posture softened.
The massive oak door of the main house swung open. A man in a perfectly tailored butler’s uniform stepped out. White hair. Ramrod-straight posture. His eyes widened at the scene on the lawn.
“Shadow! Ghost! Heel!”
The dogs hesitated, looking from the butler to Anna. Then they reluctantly trotted back to his side, still watching her.
Anna slowly rose, brushing dust from her jeans. She met the butler’s gaze.
“You must be Anna Curtis,” he said, his tone formal and cool.
“I am.”
He studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he gave a curt nod and stepped aside. “Please, come with me. Mr. Livingston is waiting for you.”
Anna picked up her suitcase and followed him into the cavernous, silent house.
