Chapter 7: Clara

The wrought-iron gates of the Vancouve estate part silently, allowing the towncar to glide onto a private, winding drive. I lean my head against the plush leather headrest, my eyes tracking the towering oaks that line the property. This place doesn't look like a residential home; it looks like a fortress built to withstand the passing of centuries.

When the car pulls to a smooth halt outside the grand stone portico, the door is opened instantly.

Arthur Vancouve is already standing there, looking undone. His charcoal suit jacket is gone, his white shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and his dark blue eyes are glassy...