Four

“Goddamn it, you fainted?” Hunter paces the length of my room with clenched fists and flashing eyes. “And the bastard just left you there?”

His anger holds a whip-like sting, but I’m not stupid enough to assume that it all stems from concern for me. A tiny bit is the result of hurt pride. How dare someone spurn a Hollings?

My only injury is symbolic: a throbbing heart. Such a wounded, frantically beating thing. Shock wars with logic, but both fail to soothe the ache. I know that what I saw wasn’t real.

He wasn’t real—Brandt, anyway. Blake Lorenz, however, is very much a terrifying reality.

“We’re going to sue the hell out of that motherfucker,” Hunter swears. “What exactly happened?”

“Nothing,” I hear myself rasp in a stranger’s voice.

“Nothing?”

It’s the truth. I fainted. I woke up in the presence of security, and Blake Lorenz was gone.

“Snowy, say something. What happened?”

“I…”

Hunter grinds his teeth. “Snowy, just spit it out!”

“He looked like Brandt.”

“Snowy…” He eyes me blankly, not that I blame him. It sounds so insane when said out loud: The man who bought the keys to the Hollings kingdom overnight looks like the boy from my nightmares, all grown up.

He’s taller than I pictured. His blue eyes were colder, darker. The stern mouth, however, dashed all resemblance. No matter how brooding or serious he could be, Brandt’s lips always concealed the hint of a smile, just waiting to be teased out by a joke or quip.

Blake Lorenz looked as though he hasn’t smiled in years.

“That’s impossible.” Hunter stands awkwardly, frozen mid-step. His furrowed brow does little to disguise his alarm. I struck a nerve. “Maybe you hit your head harder than you thought?”

He marches to my side and sits beside me. Roughly, his fingers graze my forehead as though searching for a bruise or bump, but the attempts are halfhearted. He’s stalling, and I can’t understand why.

“I didn’t hallucinate,” I insist, though I sound more doubtful than he did. My gaze fixates on the far wall as my memory taunts me with images. Blue eyes. Black hair. That beautiful, haunted face. “I saw him.”

“You need sleep, Snowy.” Hunter withdraws his hand with a sigh and rises to his feet. “Rest the remainder of the day. I’ll handle this mess myself. I have an appointment with the lawyers.” He heads for my door, puffed up with false confidence. Near the threshold, he looks back, still my Hunter, no hint of Papa in sight—which, ironically, makes this moment all the more painful. Papa was a much better liar. “I’ll make this right, Snowy. You don’t have to worry.”

“I know.” I let him go, closing my eyes obediently, as if I could just do as he says. Sleep. Wait.

But, this time, I see Brandt Lloyd behind my eyelids, watching me from across a crowded courtroom. I hear the judge render his verdict. I watch on as my only friend is led away in cuffs.

I see my world crumble—repeatedly.

Before I know it, I’m on my feet, treading the same path Hunter did. This room, with its navy walls and spacious layout, isn’t the same one Brandt used to sneak into. My old poems don’t cover the walls. Brandt’s secrets aren’t hidden in the floorboards. No, that room is on the other side of the manor, untouched for ten years. It would be so easy to creep over there now, disturb the tomb-like space. Maybe chasing traces of him could help it sink in.

Brandt Lloyd is dead and gone.

As for Blake Lorenz…

I rack my memory for any hint of that name but come up with nothing. Businessmen have been a staple of my entire life, and I’ve learned to catalog them as one does a list of poisonous creatures that may lurk in their environment. Lorenz is a name I would remember.

Unless Hunter “didn’t think” to mention more than he’s let on. I wish I could trust him, but a gnawing sense of dread warns me to find my own answers.

Luckily, he isn’t the only Hollings with connections.

The thought repels me, but I have no choice. To buy more time, I change into a pair of jeans and a plain gray sweater before entering Mama’s study. The strangest thought comes to me now, of all times: how she hated Brandt. Beautiful and cunning, my mother could charm the venom from a snake. She lavished false affection on everyone—from her husband, to his brooding business partner, to the lowest gardener.

Everyone but Brandt Lloyd.

Her nose would wrinkle in his presence and her eyes would take on a glossy glaze as though he wasn’t worth her time. Not that he ever said a disparaging word about her. In a weird way, he seemed to pity her, the belle of every Hollings ball and the star of high society.

“Your mother is lost, Snow,” he told me once, almost without meaning to. “Lost people seek out company in strange places. Don’t forget that.”

I never knew what he meant until now. I’m more than lost. I’m rudderless amid an ocean of turmoil. In the tempest, my mind turns to foolish attempts to save myself. With the phone, I dial a number ingrained into my soul, and I pray that word of my family’s ruin hasn’t spread yet.

“’Lo?” a gruff voice demands.

My throat goes dry as old memories threaten to descend. After ten years of familiarity with this figure, the sound of his voice alone is enough to make me feel fourteen years old again, listening beyond my father’s study as they plotted and schemed, using the lives of others like tokens on a game board.

“Hello?”

“This is Snowy Hollings.” My voice shakes. I force a cough to disguise the unease. “I need a favor. I’ll pay you handsomely.”

More silence. For the first time, I wonder if my game is over before it’s even begun. Finally, a sigh comes from the other end. “How handsomely, little Hollings?”

His mocking pet name churns my stomach.

“Name a sum,” I croak, “and it’s yours. But, first, I need you to find someone for me. A Mr. Blake Lorenz.”

“Find? Or find,” the man wonders, stressing the second iteration of the word.

I shiver at the implied meaning. “I just want information. Who he is. Where he’s from. Where I can find him. That’s all.”

“Fine. Fine.” He huffs into the phone. The subtle clinking of glass and muttered conversation give clues as to his surroundings. A bar somewhere? Apparently, he hasn’t changed much. Still a lowlife, it seems, lurking on the fringes of society. “When do you want it?”

“Now, preferably.” I lick my lips and weigh the pros and cons of upping the ante. Damn it to hell. I’ll take the risk. “If you can get me his location within the hour, I’ll pay double.”

“Done.”

I hear another forced exhale. He’s smoking, I presume. One of those smelly, old-fashioned cigars, most likely. That scent haunts my nightmares. I remember it tinging the halls at night when Father was up to his worst plans. This man participated in the most heinous. With Brandt on my mind, there’s a macabre irony in asking him for any help at all—but I’m desperate.

“Nice doing business with ya, little lady,” he drawls, returning my attention to the task at hand. “Reminds me of the good times with your old man.”

I hang up, wrenching my fingers from the phone as though burned. Apparently, Hunter isn’t the only one in danger of morphing into Papa. Then again, he said as much. Our father made him do terrible things in the name of the family, but he never had him lie. Hunter, for all of his faults, never drove someone to his death. Hunter still has his soul intact.

A blue-eyed boy stole mine, however, and I doubt I’ll ever get it back. My only hope is to forget its existence and focus on the here and now. I’m here, in Hollings Manor, the home I’ve lived in since birth. Now, it’s in danger, and I’ll be damned if anyone will take it away from me.

Perhaps luck is on our side for once; an hour on the dot, the phone rings. When I answer, I’m given an address before the speaker hangs up, but not without first uttering one last warning.

“Leave the money at the usual place, little Snowy. I’m sure you remember where?”

I swallow hard. I remember, all right: a narrow alley near a bar on the outskirts of the city. “Yes.”

Back in my bedroom, I stand before my full-length mirror and pick apart the appearance of the creature watching me from the glass. She’s so damn pale. Her eyes are hollow. Her face has lost all color. I don’t even recognize her anymore. She’s a ghost.

I banish her with a blouse, a skirt, and a diamond necklace. Running a brush through my hair smooths most of my curls. There. I’m myself again, poised and confident. My engagement ring sparkles on my finger, and I stare at it as guilt pangs in my stomach. I haven’t even called Daniel. I can’t—not yet. I’ll do my wifely duty and save us from ruin first.

A sudden realization pinches my heart. Instead of Papa, perhaps I’m following in Mama’s footsteps?

Obedient to the end.

The thought haunts me as I slip into the hall and approach the staircase. Hunter must be gone. I don’t find him in the foyer or hear him rustling in Mama’s study. Still, I enter the back stairway and take the keys to one of the cars rather than call for a driver. Sure enough, I find the garage devoid of Hunter’s preferred sports car. Ronan’s motorcycle is gone as well—has he even come home yet? I can’t recall.

There are more pressing matters now, apart from my wayward brother’s downward spiral.

Blake Lorenz.

According to my informant, he’s staying at a property just beyond the boundaries of Mayfield. It takes me nearly an hour to find it, nestled among the hills.

A gate bars the entrance, but the wrought iron doors part on cue before I even turn onto the driveway.

The gothic structure beyond them towers nearly four stories, with turrets stabbing at the sky and carefully manicured lawns devoid of any decorative landscaping. There aren’t even bushes to add definition to the stark plots of grass, just a stone path stretching toward the massive front door.

I park as close to the house as a can, at the end of a circular driveway. God, it’s huge. I’m forced to crane my neck to fully take the structure in. The ornate façade makes it look larger than our expansive Victorian-style dwelling. Utilitarian, almost. There are no lush gardens. No tennis courts or pool. Just trees and silence and this inescapable feeling of someone watching every step I take.

My suspicion is proven correct when I mount the three stone steps leading to the entrance, and the door opens from the inside before I can knock.

“May I help you?”

A man dressed in a black suit bars my entrance. Gray streaks his dark, neatly combed hair, adding a wizened quality to his stern features. From his sharp gaze, I sense he’s the type of man who takes his duties as gatekeeper seriously.

I clear my throat, hoping to seem unimposing enough to slip beneath his radar. “Is Mr. Lorenz available?”

“He’s out,” the man says, angling the door to close it. “If I may have your name, I’ll tell him you called.”

Behind him, I make out a spacious foyer bathed in shadow. It’s nearing sundown, but none of the lamps are lit. Any butler I know would have already had the entrance illuminated by now—unless, of course, the place was kept dark by request. Memory, the pitiful thing it is, gnaws away at my resolve.

I once knew a boy who loved the dark. It helps me think, he used to claim. He rarely lit the lamps in his room, even after nightfall.

“Wait!” My hand is sliding between the door before I know it, preventing it from closing fully. The man frowns at the slim digits, but he pauses.

“Please,” I croak, fighting to keep the tremor from my voice. “My name is Snowy Hollings. Tell him…”

What? I only have seconds to make my case. Brandt Lloyd was a dreamer. But Blake Lorenz is a businessman. He may claim not to know me—and I’ll probably never understand the darkness in his eyes—but I know the business. And I remember my father’s old warnings about little girls at the mercy of ruthless men.

Are you this desperate, Snowy? a part of me wonders. Desperate enough to sell your soul?

For the family name? No. But to assuage the fearful pang in my heart?

I’d do anything for closure once and for all.

“Tell Mr. Lorenz that I want to make a deal.” I lower my voice deliberately, leaving a suggestive air that has my cheeks flaming.

“Of course, Miss.” The butler’s stoic expression reveals no hint as to what he’s thinking. He merely nods. “I’ll relay that information—”

“Let her in, Charles.” The newer voice comes from within, mere paces from the door. Deep. Haunting. His. If I were keeping a tally, the sound would be the first strike in the “not an apparition” column.

My boy spoke softly, never like this.

“Miss?” Charles stands aside and ushers me in with a wave of his gloved hand.

I step inside a spacious entryway, illuminated by what daylight manages to seep through curtained windows. I can barely see my hand outstretched before me, and deciphering the rest of the interior requires vague guesses and my imagination. Dark. Everything is dark. The walls, the floors, and what little furniture there is. It’s all paneled wood, I suspect, containing none of the grandeur of Hollings Manor.

An uncomfortable chill settles over the drab surroundings, thickening the farther inside I follow the stern Charles. Another set of footsteps betrays the brooding figure who allowed me inside, not that Charles appears in a hurry to follow him.

“This way, Miss,” he says, his stroll steady.

As my eyes adjust, I’m forced to rely on the sound of his voice more than anything. We turn a corner, entering an even darker part of the house: a small hallway. I nearly sigh with relief when we finally reach a room illuminated enough to see clearly. Then I spot the man seated behind a polished oak desk and regret my newfound clarity.

Here, the heavy curtains have been pulled back from the three windows, revealing an endless expanse of green fields and emerald forests beyond. Waning daylight paints the room’s interior in a grayish glow, illuminating the plain leather furniture and wall-to-wall bookshelves lined with heavy tomes.

My fingers twitch before I can help it. It’s the kind of study Brandt would have loved. Quiet, secluded, with a breathtaking view to spark his curiosity. His first act would have been to sketch the large willow growing in the center of the field. He would have shaded it carefully in grays and blacks, ensuring he captured every detail.

And in the lighting, his resemblance to the seated stranger is so striking that I almost forget. He really could be my Brandt—bulkier, older, but still him. If only it weren’t for his eyes. They’re far too cold. Too bold. He strips me of my blouse and slices through my bra and my panties, peering at the bared woman underneath, all without moving a damn muscle.

“Ms. Hollings,” he says by way of greeting.

A sharp intake of air is my last-ditch effort to maintain my composure. I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink. I meet his gaze and try desperately not to react. Shadow drapes him menacingly, exaggerating his height, even while seated. Muscle strains against his too-small suit, ending comparisons to the lanky boy I knew with soft, wavy hair. This man’s wild mop of curls can be tamed only by the fingers he rakes through them.

“Mr. Lorenz,” I reply when seconds have passed in silence, but my lips fail to form any other words.

I interrupted something. A leather-bound notebook lies open before him, tilted the way someone who is left-handed might. Notes? No…

Confusion flits across my brain before alarm replaces it. My heart thunders, sending blood roaring through my eardrums. Even in the semi-darkness, every line and stroke of an ink pen is startlingly clear: a rough sketch of a lone willow tree.

“Can I help you, Ms. Hollings?” A heavy hand lands over the pages of the notebook, hiding the sketch from view. Deliberately, he closes it and leaves it on the desk. Then he levels that piercing gaze at me, heedless of the paralyzing effect. “You mentioned something about a deal…”

The suggestive tone grates against my remaining shreds of resolve. Everything, from the haunting chill in his gaze to his statuesque expression, reminds me of a bear trap partially concealed in the underbrush. One wrong step and I’ll be wounded beyond repair.

“I’d like to know what you would consider a fitting exchange for some of my family’s stock,” I say, fighting to remember why I sought him out in the first place. Not to recall an old love, but for survival. There’s no point in beating around the bush with him. “My brother would be willing to make any trade.”

Anger. It flashes across his face so quickly that I almost miss it. His jaw clenches and relaxes, betraying him to be an expert player of verbal poker. Not for the first time, I sense I’m out of my league. Even Ronan, when sober, couldn’t compose himself so quickly. But therein lies the real question.

He dislikes my unnamed brother. Why?

“Hunter would be willing to negotiate,” I clarify only to flinch. There it is again: a second quick tensing of his jaw, which forces his lips into a thin line.

Hunter has a knack for making enemies, but he also has an uncanny gift of making friends. Mainly because he treats friendship as a business and greases eager palms accordingly.

“I’m not interested in making a deal with your brother,” Blake says with implied meaning. “In fact…I’m forced to wonder why you’re even here in the first place, and not one of your brothers, attempting to negotiate?”

A damn good question. I turn to the window to disguise my unease. A faint outline of the crescent moon gleams over an ochre sky. The sun is already sinking below the horizon. Soon, it will be nightfall.

And I’m alone with a stranger in his secluded home.

“I-I was worried about my fiancé,” I say quickly. “If I can buy back some of our shares, perhaps that could help negate the damage he’s caused.”

“Do not lie.” Amusement tinges his words rather than any harsh accusation. “You’re not here for your fiancé.”

“Oh?” I look back at him, curious despite myself. The shadows minimize the resemblances to Brandt. Just enough for indignation to drown out any bitter memories. “And what makes you say that?” I ask, jutting my chin into the air.

“I have eyes,” he says, shrugging his shoulder. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be hiding your ring.”

I swallow hard. He’s right. I have my hands folded, with the right cradling the left, shielding my ring from view. Deliberately, I unfurl them, allowing the gaudy diamond to catch the light. It sparkles, a pretty little reminder of all I stand to lose.

Daniel.

Our fortune.

My sanity.

“Maybe I was wrong to come here alone,” I admit to him. Whether I intend to or not, my unease is laid bare, clear in every involuntary hitch in my voice.

“You were,” he counters, rising to his feet. “I took you for an honest woman over a coy one.”

Heat sears through my cheeks. “I thought you didn’t know me?”

His tight-lipped expression reveals nothing. “I know of you. And from what I’ve heard, you don’t approach most of your brother’s associates to offer business, Ms. Hollings.”

The thinly veiled insult lands as only the best ones can: leveled at unguarded wounds.

“Oh?” I’m genuinely curious. What rumors has he heard? Terrible ones. I’m assured as much by the way his gaze deliberately flicks up and down my front. Recent rumors.

“That you will do anything to protect your family name.”

I feel my chest expand before I register holding my breath. Once again, I envision a bear trap, its rusty, gaping maw so close to my tender limbs.

He’s testing me. But why?

His gaze is harder to read than ever. So much like Brandt… I never could tell what he was thinking.

But I knew my moral boy better than anyone else. I knew what he expected of me. More importantly, I knew which lines to never cross with him.

His voice chases me from the void. Don’t you ever do that again, Snow.

“And what should I offer you, Mr. Lorenz?” I make my voice heavy on purpose. Husky. My fingers drift toward the collar of my blouse, and I watch him with every inch they gain, ignoring my frantically beating heart.

This is wrong. Even Hunter wouldn’t have this level of seduction in mind.

But neither does Blake Lorenz. Another twitch of his jaw has my limbs buzzing. With relief? Slowly, he steps from around the desk, his gaze on my trembling fingers. Then he slams his hand down over the polished wood. “Do it.”

My heart trips inside my chest. “W-what?”

“Your blouse.” He nods curtly to the topmost button. “If you’re offering what I think you are, then don’t beat around the fucking bush. Undo it.”

The bear trap creaks in warning and slams shut. I’ve stepped on the spring. Whether I move now or later, I’m already caught.

And I suspect with a trembling certainty that he won’t let me go.