Chapter 1

Abigail gripped the frayed handles of her faded canvas bag.

The autumn wind off the East Coast bit through the thin material of her secondhand jacket. She shivered, her shoulders pulling inward.

Boston South Station was a blur of motion. Men in tailored suits and women in sharp trench coats hurried past her, their leather shoes clicking against the concrete. Abigail took a half-step back, pressing her spine against a cold concrete pillar. She felt entirely too small.

A black Cadillac Escalade pulled into the pickup zone. The heavy tires crushed the asphalt with a low, expensive hum. The tinted windows rolled up, hiding the interior.

The passenger door opened. A tall young man stepped out.

He wore a dark blue Ivy League prep school blazer. His posture was rigid, his jawline sharp. This was Hank. Her biological brother.

Abigail had only seen him in a photograph. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She took a deep breath, forcing her stiff lips into a hesitant, eager smile, and took a step forward.

Hank's eyes swept over her. They stopped on her washed-out jeans and the scuffed toes of her sneakers.

For a fraction of a second, his brow furrowed. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

Abigail saw it. The raw, unfiltered disgust. Her foot froze in mid-air. The smile on her face withered, turning into a grimace of pure awkwardness.

Hank blinked. In an instant, the disgust vanished, replaced by a flawless, practiced gentleman's smile. He closed the distance between them with long strides.

He didn't open his arms. He stopped exactly two feet away, maintaining a sterile social distance. He gave a single, curt nod.

"Welcome home."

"Thank you," Abigail whispered.

Her thick, rural accent hung in the cold air. Hank's eyes darkened again. He reached out, his bare, impeccably manicured fingers lightly pinching the frayed strap of her canvas bag.

"Allow me."

Abigail panicked. She gripped the bag tighter. Their hands brushed.

The brief contact of skin against skin sent a jolt of electricity through the air. Hank yanked his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove, his expression twisting into a fleeting mask of pure revulsion.

The silence between them turned suffocating. Hank cleared his throat, adjusting his cuff. He gestured to the driver.

A man in a crisp uniform and white gloves stepped forward. His face was completely blank as he took the cheap bag and tossed it into the massive trunk. It looked like a piece of trash sitting on the plush carpet.

Hank pulled open the heavy rear door of the Escalade. He extended a hand, a perfect, mechanical gesture.

Abigail ducked her head and climbed inside. The scent of rich leather and the blast of the climate control system hit her face. It made her stomach churn with a sudden, intense wave of class vertigo.

She expected Hank to slide in next to her. Instead, the rear door slammed shut.

Hank opened the front passenger door and got in. The tall leather seat completely blocked her view of him.

The Escalade pulled smoothly onto the Boston highway. Soft classical music played from the speakers.

Abigail stared at the skyscrapers blurring past the tinted glass. She desperately needed to break the ice.

"How is... how is Mom?" she asked to the back of his head.

Hank looked at her through the rearview mirror. His eyes were dead.

"She is fine. Just busy today."

His voice was a flat line. It was a wall made of soft knives, cutting off any chance of connection.

Abigail lowered her eyes. She shoved her freezing hands deep into her jacket pockets and bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She swallowed the thick lump forming in her throat.

For the next forty minutes, Hank typed on his phone. He didn't speak another word.

The scenery changed. The highway gave way to the wealthy suburbs of Connecticut. Massive manicured lawns and estates hidden behind thick tree lines rolled past.

The Escalade slowed in front of a towering wrought-iron gate. A security guard checked the plates and waved them through.

The tires crunched over a long, winding gravel driveway. They stopped in front of a massive Victorian mansion.

Hank opened his door and stepped out. He walked straight toward the front steps. He didn't look back.

The driver opened Abigail's door. She climbed out clumsily. Her sneakers hit the expensive gravel with a loud, scraping sound.

Hank paused on the top step. He turned and looked down at her.

"The housekeeper will show you to your room," he said, his tone entirely strictly business.

He pushed open the heavy front door and disappeared inside.