Chapter 3 - The Waiting Gate
The walk down the winding mountain road from Mountain Ridge Estate was punishing. The altitude made every breath feel thin, and holding a fifty-pound five-year-old while navigating gravel paths in heels was an exercise in pure endurance. Emma cried softly into my shoulder for the first ten minutes, her little body shuddering with every sob.
"I'm sorry, Mommy," she whimpered, her tiny hands clutching the fabric of my blouse. "I didn't mean to break the glass. Grandma is right. I'm bad."
Hearing those words come out of my daughter's mouth broke my heart into a thousand pieces. I stopped under the amber glow of a pine-shaded lamppost, knelt down despite the pain in my knees, and gently pulled Emma's hands away from her face. I forced myself to smile through my own burning tears, wiping her damp cheeks with my thumbs.
"Listen to me, Emma," I said, my voice fierce and steady. "Look at Mommy. You are not bad. You are wonderful, smart, kind, and precious. Accidents happen to everyone. Grandma was wrong to say those things, and I am so, so sorry you had to hear them. Do you understand me?"
Emma sniffled, blinking her wide, dark eyes at me. "Really?"
"Really," I promised, kissing her forehead. "You are my favorite person in the entire world, and nothing—do you hear me? Nothing—anyone else says or does will ever change that."
She gave a small, tentative nod, wrapping her arms around my neck and squeezing tight. I stood back up, shifting her weight onto my hip, and continued walking toward the main security gates of the estate. The sun was beginning to dip below the jagged peaks of the Rocky Mountains, painting the sky in violent shades of burnt orange, deep purple, and bruised gray. The temperature dropped rapidly with the fading light, sending a sharp chill through my light evening dress.
By the time we reached the iron-wrought gates at the bottom of the long driveway, my feet were blistered and my arms ached with a dull, throbbing pain. I checked my phone. The battery was sitting dangerously low at nine percent. No text messages. No updates.
Where are you? I typed quickly into the screen, my thumb hovering over the send button before pausing. I didn't want to sound needy, but standing alone in the freezing mountain wind with a crying child made desperation an unavoidable reality. I hit send anyway.
Almost instantly, the screen flashed. A sleek, matte-black Bentley Continental GT glided silently out from a side access road, its high beams cutting through the gathering dusk before dimming as it pulled up right beside us. The tinted window of the driver's side rolled down smoothly.
A man leaned across the console, his sharp jawline shadowed by evening stubble, his piercing blue eyes catching the amber glow of the gate light. He took off his dark sunglasses, running a hand through thick, dark hair.
"You look like you've been through a war zone, Hannah," a deep, rich voice murmured.
May you like
It was Julian Vance.
And as the passenger door swung open automatically, revealing a warm, leather-scented interior and a plush blanket waiting on the seat, I realized that my life was about to change in ways my family could never possibly imagine.
