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The hallway clock downstairs struck 12:48 AM, a low, hollow chime that seemed to stretch through the empty rooms of Cedar Hollow. / Chapter 1 / 20

Chapter 1 - The Midnight Fever

The hallway clock downstairs struck 12:48 AM, a low, hollow chime that seemed to stretch through the empty rooms of Cedar Hollow. Imani tossed off the heavy quilt Elijah had provided, her heart instantly hammering against her ribs. Zoe was burning. The infant’s face, usually plump and rosy, was flushed with an alarming, bruised crimson. When Imani pressed her palm to Zoe's forehead, the heat radiated back like a small stove.

“Shh, baby, mama’s here,” Imani whispered, her voice cracking as she hoisted the baby into her arms.

Zoe didn't cry. Instead, she let out a shallow, whistling gasp that turned Imani’s blood to ice. Five months old, and her lungs were already struggling.

Imani bolted out of the guest room. The old wooden floorboards, usually silent under careful footsteps, groaned loudly beneath her bare feet. She didn't care. She rushed to the end of the hall where the dark walnut door stood sealed—the one Elijah had kept locked. Her fist hammered against it three times, desperate, frantic.

“Elijah! Open the door! Please!”

Within seconds, the door directly opposite swung open. Elijah stepped out into the dim hallway, wearing a dark gray henley and sweatpants, his hair slightly rumpled. The hardened, stoic billionaire of the boardrooms had vanished; in his place stood a man whose instincts had been forged by early awakenings and sudden panics.

“What is it?” Elijah demanded, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes locked onto Zoe’s gasping form.

“Her fever spiked. She can't breathe right. Do you have a car that can make it through this mud? We need a hospital—now.”

Elijah didn't ask questions. He didn't waste breath explaining that the private county road was completely washed out. He simply looked at the child, looked at Imani’s trembling hands, and made a decision.

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The mahogany grandfather clock in the east corridor struck 2:03 AM. The champagne glasses had been cleared, the jazz band had packed their instruments, and the last of the high-society guests had vanished into the freezing Manhattan night, leaving behind the heavy scent of expensive perfume and melted candlewax.

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The wail of police sirens tore through the heavy silence of the Hawthorne estate, cutting across the manicured lawns like a blade. Mara remained frozen on her side near the base of the grand staircase, her breath shallow, her hands trembling against the floorboards. She could hear the frantic pounding of heavy shoes racing up the drive, followed by the metallic click of car doors slamming shut. They were here.

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“Follow me,” he said, his tone commanding yet stripped of arrogance.

He didn't lead her back down the stairs. Instead, he marched straight toward the dark walnut door at the end of the hall. With a steady turn of a heavy brass key that hung on a chain around his neck, the lock clicked. The door swung open, releasing the faint, ghost-like scent of cedarwood, dried lavender, and old paper.

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