Chapter 1 - The Fire in the GalleriaThe cold morning mist clung to the windshield of my SUV as I drove west toward a secure ranch in Hill Country, far beyond the perimeter of Luke’s Houston surveillance grid. My stomach tightened as our unborn daughter kicked against my ribcage—a quiet, rhythmic reminder of why I had chosen to walk away from a life built on gilded lies.
Back in River Oaks, the heavy mahogany front doors of the mansion were slammed open at 4:48 a.m.
Luke Delaney stepped into the quiet foyer, his broad frame casting a long, dark shadow across the polished marble. His midnight-blue tailored jacket was unbuttoned, his collar open, his dark hair disheveled from a night spent in a luxury hotel room near the Galleria.
His jaw was set in that familiar, terrifying line—the expression that made federal prosecutors lower their eyes and rival syndicate bosses step out of his path. He had come home ready to face my tears, my accusations, and my rage. He had prepared his cold, practiced excuses: It was business, Paige. Claire meant nothing. You don't understand how this city works.
He expected a broken, helpless pregnant wife weeping in our bedroom.
Instead, he found an absolute, suffocating silence.
Luke walked through the dark corridors, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the floorboards. "Paige?" he called out, his baritone voice carrying a sharp, dangerous edge.
No answer.
He pushed open our master suite doors. The bed was made, untouched. My closet doors hung open, revealing an empty space where my winter coats and weekend bags usually rested.
A cold, unfamiliar panic began to knot in the pit of Luke’s stomach. He turned on his heel and walked toward the nursery at the end of the hall—the sunlit room painted in soft sage green, filled with custom oak furniture and plush velvet armchairs.
There, resting on the velvet cushion of the nursing chair beside the unfinished bookshelf, was my platinum wedding ring.
Beside it lay a three-page letter written in my neat, familiar handwriting, held down by an old, yellowed newspaper clipping from fifteen years ago.
May you like
Luke stepped forward, his breathing turning shallow. He picked up the heavy ring, his thumb tracing the inner inscription: Eternally Yours, L.D.
Then he opened the letter.
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