Chapter 1 - Blood Before Dawn
“If you drop that tray, Emma, half the east coast will hear you scream.”
Emma Collins barely caught the heavy sterling silver breakfast service against her ribs. The porcelain tea set rattled violently, a single drop of black coffee splashing onto the starched white linen.
At 5:07 on a pitch-black, rain-lashed Thursday morning, Dominic Mercer—a man whom half of New England feared and the other half pretended didn't exist—was leaning against the shadow of the pantry archway.
His private Gulfstream was supposed to be grounded at Heathrow until Monday afternoon. The society pages had him dining with shipping magnates in Mayfair. The household calendar had his suite locked until Saturday’s rehearsal dinner.
Yet here he was. Rainwater dripped steadily from the heavy wool of his tailored black overcoat onto the antique parquet floor. He smelled of jet fuel, sea salt, and cold steel. One gloved finger was pressed firmly against his lips. His dark eyes, completely devoid of sleep, bored into hers like twin gun barrels.
“You came back?” Emma’s whisper was barely a breath against the sound of rain hammering the tall leaded windows.
“Keep your voice down,” Dominic murmured, not moving an inch. “Does Brooke know?”
“No. No one does.” Emma swallowed hard, her heart pounding against her sternum. “Why are you here, Dominic? What happened in London?”
“Nothing in London,” he said, his voice flat, dangerously quiet. “It’s what’s happening in my house while my back is turned.”
“What do you mean?”
Dominic stepped out of the shadow just enough for the faint amber glow of the under-cabinet lighting to catch the sharp angles of his jaw. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a sleek black burner phone, tossing it onto the wooden prep island between them.
“At two in the morning, London time, my nine-year-old nephew called me. Hysterical. Hiding in his closet with the light off.”
Emma’s chest constricted. “Noah?”
“He asked me if he did something wrong,” Dominic said. The fury vibrating underneath his steady tone was enough to make the air in the pantry feel sub-zero. “He asked me why Brooke told his mother that after Saturday afternoon, neither of them is allowed past the security gate.”
“Dear God,” Emma breathed, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth.
Saturday was Dominic’s wedding day.
For six months, since Natalie’s husband had been killed in a hit-and-run on Route 1, Dominic’s younger sister had lived in the south wing of the Mercer estate. Natalie hadn’t asked for an allowance. She hadn't asked for luxury cars or social introductions. She had simply asked for a quiet corner of the family ground where her son could sleep through the night without hearing sirens.
Their late mother, Catherine Mercer, had made Dominic swear an oath at her bedside four years ago: No matter what happens, no matter who enters this family, Natalie and Noah will always have a roof over their heads.
Brooke Harrington knew that. Everyone on the estate knew that. Brooke had nodded, smiled, played the doting future aunt, and worn Catherine’s sapphire engagement ring with delicate grace.
“Then Noah asked me a second question,” Dominic said, his eyes darkening to slate.
Emma braced herself. “What?”
“He asked why Brooke told his mother that Grandma Catherine’s cottage belonged to her now.”
Emma felt the blood drain completely from her face. “Dominic... the eastern cottage?”
“The cottage,” Dominic confirmed, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked under his skin. “The one Catherine specifically deeded into a private trust before she died. The trust that holds the land, the offshore accounts, and Natalie’s entire security net.”
“That trust is sealed,” Emma whispered. “It requires two signatures to alter. Yours and—”
“Mine, and a notarized power of attorney if I am out of the country on high-risk business.” Dominic’s eyes narrowed into slits. “A power of attorney Brooke had drawn up three weeks ago for 'emergency estate administration' while I traveled abroad.”
Emma’s hands shook so violently she had to set the silver tray onto the marble countertop. “She wouldn’t dare.”
“She would. And she did.” Dominic pulled a pair of thin leather gloves tighter over his knuckles. “She thinks I’m six hours ahead, trapped in an eight-hour meeting across the Atlantic. She thinks my plane touches down twelve hours before we walk down the aisle.”
A sharp, rhythmic clicking echoed down the marble hallway outside.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
High heels. Slow, measured, and dripping with arrogant authority.
Dominic didn't flinch. In one fluid, soundless motion, he slid behind the concealed pocket door leading to the estate’s unused wine service corridor. The wooden panel slid shut with nothing more than a faint click of the latch.
Two seconds later, the swing door of the pantry flew open.
Brooke Harrington swept into the room. Even at 5:12 in the morning, her honey-blond hair fell in immaculate, heat-set waves over her shoulders. She wore a floor-length cream silk robe under a tailored camel-hair coat, clutching a thick black leather document folder against her chest. Her diamond engagement ring caught the pantry light, flashing brightly.
She didn't look at Emma’s face. She only looked at the empty counter.
“Where is Natalie?” Brooke demanded, her voice crisp, nasal, and entirely devoid of the sweet Southern lilt she used when Dominic was in the room.
“I believe she’s still asleep upstairs, Miss Harrington,” Emma answered carefully, keeping her hands flat against the apron at her waist. “It’s barely past five in the morning.”
Brooke scoffed, tossing the leather folder onto the prep table right beside where Dominic’s burner phone had been resting moments earlier. “Then go drag her out of bed.”
Emma didn't move. “Miss Harrington, Noah had a rough night. He’s had nightmares since yesterday. If you need to speak with Natalie, it can wait until breakfast at eight.”
Brooke’s polished, manicured smile vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, venomous glare. She took two steps forward, invading Emma’s space until the scent of her expensive Parisian perfume choked the small room.
“Did I ask for your opinion on childcare, Emma?” Brooke said, her voice dropping to a harsh, cutting hiss. “I asked you to wake her. Or have you forgotten whose name is going on the deed to this property on Saturday?”
“Mr. Mercer’s name is on the deed,” Emma replied quietly, standing her ground.
Brooke let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Dominic gives me whatever I want. And by noon today, this entire estate is running under my protocols. Natalie has thirty minutes to sign these lease-termination disclosures and transfer papers, or I will have county sheriff deputies escort her and her sniveling little brat off the grounds before the sun comes up.”
Emma felt the air freeze in the room. From behind the thin wood of the service panel, she knew Dominic was listening to every syllable.
“You can’t evict his sister,” Emma said, forcing her voice to remain level. “Dominic would never allow it.”
“Dominic isn't here,” Brooke snapped, leaning in until her eyes bore into Emma’s with venomous triumph. “Dominic is over the Atlantic, completely unreachable on an encrypted sat-link until noon. And by the time he lands, Natalie will already be packed, the trust assets will be safely transferred into my private holding account, and I will explain to Dominic that his sister simply couldn't handle living here anymore.”
Brooke tapped the black leather folder with a sharp, polished fingernail.
May you like
“Now,” Brooke commanded, her voice dropping into a razor-edged threat, “go get Natalie down here right now, or you can pack your bags and leave with her.”
Before Emma could respond, the heavy iron latch of the hidden service door behind Brooke slowly, deliberately clicked open.
