ROXIE
Vance Manor didn't look like a home; it looked like a gilded fortress.
The iron gates groaned shut behind Garrison’s sleek black SUV, sounding painfully like a prison door locking me in for the next ninety days. The rain was still pouring, washing over the stone facade of the massive estate.
Garrison hadn't spoken a single word to me during the entire forty-minute drive from the corporate office. He sat behind the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek, his dark eyes fixed ruthlessly on the slick road ahead.
The silence between us was heavy, charged with the memory of the night before and the terrifying reality of the lawyer's boardroom.
The moment he parked in the sprawling garage, he slammed his door shut and strode inside without waiting for me. I grabbed my single, battered duffel bag and scrambled after him, my wet boots squeaking against the pristine marble floors of the grand foyer.
"Listen to me carefully, Roxie," Garrison said, spinning around suddenly. He didn't take off his suit jacket. He just stood there, towering over me, a wall of pure, intimidating authority. "We are here because my grandfather has a sick sense of humor. But make no mistake— you are just a guest here, not an owner. You stay on your side of the house, and I stay on mine."
"Trust me, I have no desire to be anywhere near you," I shot back, lifting my chin despite the tremor in my knees.
"Good." A dark, unreadable emotion flashed in his eyes as his gaze briefly dropped to my mouth before hardening again. "Your room is at the end of the east wing. It’s isolated. It's far away from my quarters. Do not wander into the main house after dark. Tomorrow morning, we handle the business. Tonight, stay out of my sight."
He turned on his heel and disappeared up the grand winding staircase, leaving me alone with my echoing heartbeat.
I carried my bag up the east wing hallway, the heavy silence of the mansion pressing in on me. When I finally reached the door he had described, I pushed it open.
The room was breathtakingly luxurious—a massive four-poster bed, velvet drapes, and a fireplace already crackling with warmth.
But I didn't care about the luxury. My eyes went straight to the center of the crisp, white duvet.
Resting on the bed was a thick, wax-sealed black envelope with my name written across the front in my grandfather’s sharp handwriting.
My breath caught. I dropped my duffel bag and tore open the seal, my hands shaking. Inside was a single gold card:
CHALLENGE ONE: THE WOLF IN THE BOARDROOM.
Vance International’s premier luxury hotel is facing a catastrophic public relations crisis. A high-profile guest was sabotaged this morning, and the media is circling. You have exactly seven days to save the hotel’s five-star rating.
The Catch: You must co-manage the crisis from the hotel's top-floor penthouse. Move in tonight. If you fail to resolve the crisis together by midnight, the ninety-day pact is void. The inheritance is gone. And Roxie's mother's debt will be called in.
A text message suddenly chimed on my phone. I pulled it out. It was a photo of my mother’s small boutique shop in Ohio. A black sedan was parked right out front.
Tick tock, Roxie, the text read from an unknown number.
Panic tore through me. We didn't have until tomorrow morning. We had to leave for the hotel right now.
I grabbed the gold card, sprinted out of my room, and ran down the dark, twisting hallways of the west wing, completely ignoring Garrison’s rule. I threw open the doors to his private quarters without knocking.
Garrison was standing by his window, his suit jacket off, unbuttoning his white dress shirt. The fabric was parted, revealing the hard, muscular planes of his chest. He spun around, his eyes blazing with fury at the intrusion.
"I thought I told you to stay out of my—"
"Shut up and look at this," I gasped, throwing the gold card onto his desk. "We have to leave now."
Garrison didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped from my face down to the gold card resting on his dark wood desk, his thick brows drawing together.
For a split second, his corporate composure completely faltered. The elusive, ruthless CEO looked entirely human, and completely exhausted by a dead man’s mind games.
With a low curse, he snatched the card. His dark eyes flicked over the elegant cursive, his jaw clenching so tight the bone looked sharp enough to pierce skin.
"He's unhinged," Garrison muttered, tossing the card back onto the desk like it was toxic. "The old man is in a casket and he’s still orchestrating my life. We aren't going anywhere tonight, Roxie. Tomorrow morning, my legal team will file an injunction to dispute this clause."
"We don't have until tomorrow morning!" I yelled, my voice cracking under the weight of the panic clawing up my throat. I stepped directly into his personal space, shoving my phone forward. The screen was still glowing with the photo of the black sedan parked outside my mother’s small boutique shop in Ohio.
"Look at this, Garrison," I whispered, my hand shaking so hard the phone trembled. "The people holding my mother's debt already know I'm here. They're watching her. Your grandfather rigged this entire thing. If we aren't at that hotel tonight, the pact is void, and the lender liquidates my mother's life. I am boarding a cab to that hotel right now. With or without you."
Garrison’s eyes snapped from the phone screen to my face. The sheer desperation in my eyes must have registered, because the cold anger in his expression suddenly shifted into something heavy, dark, and hyper-focused.
He took a step toward me, closing the distance between us until the heat radiating from his bare chest made my skin flush.
"You don't go anywhere without me, Roxie," he said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding baritone that vibrated right through me. "If you fail, the Vance legacy fails. And I don't lose."
He reached out, his long fingers wrapping around my upper arm. His grip wasn't painful, but it was unyielding, grounding me against the wave of panic.
For a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped to my lips, the ghost of last night’s electric chemistry flaring between us before he ripped his eyes away.
"Grab your bag," he ordered smoothly, letting go of my arm and reaching for a fresh black shirt from his wardrobe. "We leave in two minutes."
I stumbled back out of his room, my breath trapped in my lungs. I ran back down the east wing, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn't even unpack. I just zipped my battered duffel bag back up, my mind racing.
He's my brother, I reminded myself, my eyes burning. He's my half-brother. We share a grandfather. I repeated the words like a shield, trying to protect myself from the terrifying reality of how my body had reacted when he stood close to me just moments ago.
When I got back down to the grand foyer, Garrison was already waiting by the door. He was fully dressed now, a heavy black overcoat thrown over his tailored shirt. He didn't offer to carry my bag. He just turned on his heel and strode out into the pouring rain toward a sleek, black SUV idling in the large garage.
~~~~~~~
The forty-minute drive into Manhattan was a silent war zone. Garrison drove like a man possessed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his dark eyes fixed ruthlessly on the slick road ahead. The rain lashed against the windshield in violent sheets, mimicking the storm trapped inside the vehicle.
Every time the car turned a sharp corner, our shoulders brushed. Every single touch felt like a betrayal of our own bloodline. The silence between us was heavy, charged with the memory of the hotel bar and the terrifying reality of the lawyer's boardroom.
By the time the SUV pulled into the private, underground garage of the Vance Plaza Hotel, the air inside the car felt completely depleted of oxygen.
Garrison slammed his door shut. "Stay close to me," he commanded, his voice tight. "The lobby is surrounded by press. We are taking the secure freight elevator directly to the top."
He didn't wait for a response. He grabbed my duffel bag from the back seat himself, his other hand gripping my wrist firmly to guide me through a secure, reinforced steel door. The warmth of his palm burned straight through my thin denim jacket, making my skin prickle with an unwelcome, dangerous heat.
The private elevator bank glided smoothly up to the top floor, the digital display ticking upward into the fifties at an appalling speed. When the doors chimed and slid open, we stepped directly into the grand penthouse suite.
The space was staggering—sprawling marble floors, minimalist luxury, and floor-to-ceiling glass walls displaying a panoramic view of the New York skyline caught in a thunderstorm.
But we weren't alone. Arthur, the elderly family lawyer, was already standing by a massive mahogany desk, holding a glowing tablet.
"Ah, good, you made it," Arthur said, looking up over his reading glasses. "The media is having a field day with the guest sabotage downstairs. The stock is already taking a hit in the after-hours trading."
"Give us the short version, Arthur," Garrison snapped, shedding his wet overcoat and tossing it over a leather armchair. "What are we dealing with?"
"A prominent foreign diplomat checked into the royal suite this morning," Arthur explained, tapping his screen. "By noon, his private safe was breached, highly sensitive documents were leaked online, and the security grid for that entire floor went completely dark for ten minutes. It looks like an inside job. The media is painting Vance International as incompetent, dangerous, or corrupt."
Arthur sighed, adjusting his glasses as he looked at both of us. "Your grandfather's challenge is specific. You have six days to find the saboteur, protect the diplomat's reputation, and save this hotel's five-star rating. You must co-manage the crisis from this penthouse. You cannot leave this floor without a security detail."
"Fine," Garrison said, his arms crossing over his chest. "Set up a secondary workspace in the guest room for Roxie. We start tracking the staff logs immediately."
Arthur paused, a look of profound discomfort crossing his weathered face. "That brings me to the logistical complication, Garrison."
Garrison frowned, taking a step forward. "What complication?"
"Due to the emergency lockdown and the high-profile conference currently booked in the building, the lower executive suites are completely sealed," Arthur said carefully. "This penthouse is the only secure location left. And because of a recent renovation layout... it only has one master bedroom suite prepared for use."
The room went completely still.
I stared at Arthur, my voice trapped in my throat. "One... one bed?"
"Exactly," Arthur said, quickly stepping backward into the elevator bank before either of us could explode. "I suggest you two figure it out. Goodnight, kids. Don't ruin the stock price before morning."
The metal doors glided closed, the soft clink of the lock sealing us inside. In the sudden, heavy silence of the penthouse, the only sound left was the violent lash of the rain against the glass, and the slow, predatory turn of Garrison’s head as his dark eyes locked onto mine.