“They’re not finicky,” I’d argued. “They’re particular.”
He’d kissed my cheek and said nothing else.
Clearly, he had been listening.
In the center of the great hall, on a small oak pedestal table, sat a silver laptop. Closed. Balanced carefully atop it was a single white orchid in a clear glass cylinder—a live plant, its roots wrapped around a chunk of bark, its blooms pristine, almost impossibly pure.
My throat tightened. My eyes burned.
The sound cut through the stillness like a blade.
Heart hammering, I crossed the room to the tall windows that overlooked the front drive. A black sedan I didn’t recognize was rolling to a stop in the circular turnaround. The doors opened one by one.
Three men got out.
Even from this distance, the family resemblance hit me like a physical thing.
The first man was in his late fifties, tall and broad-shouldered, with graying dark hair cut in an executive style and a jaw that looked permanently set. The second was slightly shorter, leaner, with sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and a quickness to his movements that put me instantly on edge. The third was younger than the other two by at least ten years, with softer features, his expression guarded.
Victor. Pierce. Noah.
I had seen them only once, more than a decade ago, at Michael’s mother’s funeral. Even then, there had been tension simmering between them and Michael. They had stood in a cluster at the back of the church, whispers passing between them like currents, while Michael stood with me and Sophie near the front, offering no acknowledgment.
Afterward, as we drove home, I’d asked him why he hadn’t even greeted them.
“They’re my brothers by blood,” he’d said, staring straight ahead. “That’s all.”
He had never elaborated. And I had never pressed.
Now, they were striding toward the front steps of the house my husband had secretly purchased, their faces set in expressions that had nothing to do with grief or nostalgia.
They looked like men on a mission.
Like men who believed this place belonged to them.
I stepped away from the window, my heart pounding.
They mounted the porch and pounded on the door.
“Naomi!” a deep voice boomed—Victor’s. “We know you’re in there. We saw the gate open. We need to talk about the house.”
How did they know I would be here? Had someone at the county office notified them about a change in title? Had they bribed a clerk? Or had they simply kept tabs on every property in the area, waiting for some sign that Michael’s estate had finally shifted?
“You don’t have to answer,” I muttered to myself, backing toward the table with the laptop. This was my house. My land. Legally, I had no obligation to invite them in.
The pounding came again, louder.
“Naomi,” Victor called, his tone shifting into something that tried to sound reasonable. “This is family business. You can’t just hide from us. Open up before we make this legal.”
That line—that one, smug, thinly veiled threat—did something to my spine. It straightened.
“Make this legal?” I whispered. “You think you’re the only ones with lawyers?”
My gaze dropped to the laptop. It felt suddenly like a lifeline.
Hands shaking, I moved the orchid carefully to one side and opened the computer. The screen lit up, flooding my fingers with a cool glow. A password prompt appeared.
Of course. Michael had never been careless about security.
My mind raced. What would he use? My first guess was our anniversary, but that felt too obvious. His childhood address? His mother’s birthday? The coordinates of this place?
