The last nanny came flying down the marble steps of Crossmoor House with one shoe in her hand, rain in her hair, and terror stripped across her face like she had just escaped a burning church. She nearly crashed into Mara Ellison beneath the stone portico, caught herself on a carved lion, and stared at Mara as if she were watching a woman step willingly into a grave.

Mara couldn't sleep.

Her assigned room was on the third floor—a cavernous suite with velvet drapes, a four-poster bed that smelled of lavender and cedar, and a massive arched window overlooking the long iron-picket driveway. But the mattress was too soft, the silence too absolute, and her mind was racing at a million miles an hour.

She stood by the window in her oversized cotton sleep shirt, staring down into the mist.

That was when she saw the headlights.

A sleek, black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows turned off the highway, bypassed the outer security sensors with an electronic chirp that suggested someone had high-level clearance, and rolled smoothly up the winding drive of Crossmoor House. It came to a silent halt beneath the stone portico.

Mara pressed her palms against the cool glass.

The rear door of the Escalade opened, and a man stepped out into the fog. Even in the dim amber glow of the porch lamps, Mara recognized him instantly.

Bryce Caldwell.

Her ex-husband. Dressed in a tailored charcoal Brioni suit that cost more than her monthly grocery budget, his silver-streaked hair slicked back with expensive pomade, his face twisted into that familiar, oily smile that had charmed bank managers and divorce judges alike while hiding a core of pure, venomous malice.

What was Bryce doing here? At two in the morning? At Damon Cross’s estate?

Mara’s breath hitched in her throat. She spun away from the window, grabbed her old bathrobe, threw it over her shoulders, and bolted out the door.

Her bare feet flew silently across the antique Persian runners lining the grand hallway. She didn't take the elevator; she hit the sweeping marble staircase at a dead sprint, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Bryce knew about the custody hearing, of course—but how did he know she was here? Unless... unless his legal team had tracked her phone, or worse, unless Damon Cross’s underworld connections intersected with Bryce’s shady real estate developments in Baton Rouge.

She reached the ground floor just as the heavy oak front door clicked open with a muffled thud.

Mara slipped behind a massive marble pillar in the grand foyer, holding her breath, pressing her back against the cold stone.

Through the double-paned sidelights of the front door, she could see the foyer landing. Damon Cross stood there, illuminated by the crystal chandelier. He hadn't gone to bed; he was wearing a dark cashmere sweater, his sleeves rolled up, a glass of bourbon in his hand. He looked like an apex predator welcoming an unwelcome stray into his territory.

"Caldwell," Damon said, his voice dripping with casual, lethal contempt. "You missed visiting hours by about six hours. And last I checked, my logistics firm doesn't do business with crooked land speculators."

Bryce stepped across the threshold, his smug smile faltering slightly under the sheer weight of Damon’s gaze. But Bryce recovered quickly, adjusting his cuffs with practiced arrogance.

"Cut the act, Cross," Bryce sneered, stepping into the foyer. "We both know why I'm here. I heard a very interesting rumor tonight. Word on the Baton Rouge legal circuit is that your new live-in nanny is a broke little nobody named Mara Ellison—a woman who currently has a custody case pending against me. Now, I have to wonder... what is the King of the Gulf doing hiring my soon-to-be ex-wife's mortal enemy?"

Mara’s blood ran ice cold.

He knows. Bryce knew she was here. And worse, he was using it as leverage.

Damon took a slow sip of his bourbon. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He just looked at Bryce the way a cat looks at a cornered mouse before it decides whether to bat it around for an hour or snap its neck immediately.

"Let me explain something to you, Caldwell," Damon said, his voice dropping into a quiet, bone-chilling register that made Mara shudder from ten feet away. "This house is private property. My sons are private citizens. And Mara Ellison is currently under my roof, under my payroll, and under my protection."

Bryce let out a harsh, nervous laugh. "Protection? Cross, don't be a fool. The woman is broke. She’s desperate. She’s got thirty-six dollars in her bank account and an eviction notice hanging over her head. In two weeks, a judge is going to hand me full custody of Lily on a silver platter because Mara can't even afford a roof over her head. You want to get mixed up in that? I can make your business dealings look like a federal playground picnic."

Damon set his bourbon glass down on a marble console table so hard the crystal cracked down the side.

In a fraction of a second, before Bryce could even blink, Damon crossed the foyer, grabbed Bryce by the lapels of his expensive Brioni suit, and hoisted him clean off the floor, slamming him against the heavy oak front door with a resounding crash that rattled the stained glass above.

"Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic little worm," Damon whispered, his face inches from Bryce’s whitening visage, his gray eyes burning with cold, absolute fury. "If you ever step foot on my property again—if you ever mention Mara’s name, or her daughter’s name, with that filthy mouth of yours—I won't just ruin your real estate portfolio. I will feed you to the alligators in the Atchafalaya basin and tell the parish sheriff you went on an extended fishing trip. Do we understand each other?"

Bryce’s eyes bulged with stark, unadulterated terror. He choked out a panicked, strangled sound: "Y-yes... yes, Cross! Let me go!"

Damon dropped him. Bryce hit the floor in a heap, scrambling backward like a crab on a hot stove, picking himself up, and fleeing out the door into the fog without looking back. The Escalade tires squealed as it tore down the drive.

Damon stood in the center of the foyer, breathing heavily, adjusting his sweater.