Claimed by my brother's friend after my Ex's revenge

The key jammed in the deadbolt.

I twisted it hard to the right, then wrenched it back left. Nothing moved. A fresh circle of polished brass gleamed around the cylinder—new hardware, installed while I was still standing in the ruins of Grandpa’s memorial.

"Don't break your wrist, little niece."

Uncle Marcus’s head of security, Keller, leaned against the doorframe from the inside, swinging the heavy oak panel open two inches. He held up a thick manila folder.

"Locks are changed," Keller said. "Orders from Marcus."

"This is my parents' house," I rasped, my throat raw. "My clothes are in there. My passport. My grandmother's locket."

"Marcus froze the estate. Every bank card with the Vance crest on it is dead plastic." Keller offered a thin, mocking sneer. "Don't bother knocking on Aunt Evelyn’s door either. Marcus put the word out to every cousin in the state. Anyone who gives you a glass of water loses their stipend."

"He can't legally lock me out of my primary residence!"

"Call a lawyer, then." Keller shut the door in my face. The bolt clicked shut.

I stood on the cold stone porch, trembling as rain began to mist across my bare arms. I pulled out my phone and tapped my banking app. Balance: $0.00. Account Status: Suspended.

Tires screeched at the curb.

A battered gray sedan pulled up, the passenger door flying open instantly.

"Odessa! Get in!"

"Anson?"

I sprinted down the driveway and scrambled into the seat. My brother slammed the door before I even pulled my coat free. He threw the car into reverse, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, dark bags hanging under his eyes.

"Where are they holding Mom and Dad?" I asked, gripping the dashboard. "Can we post bail?"

"There is no bail," Anson snapped, swerving around a delivery truck. "The feds flagged Dad as a flight risk. Joe gave them copies of foreign dummy accounts. Half of them are forged, but it buys Marcus enough time to liquidate Arthur’s shares."

"Marcus is in on it?"

"Marcus was always in on it," Anson said grimly. "Joe thinks he took down the man who ruined his father. He has no clue Marcus orchestrated the bankruptcy ten years ago and framed Dad for the sign-offs."

"Then we go to the prosecutor. We tell them—"

"With what proof?" Anson cut in, glancing sharply in the rearview mirror. "Marcus has the board. Joe has the paper trail. I have forty-eight hours before Marcus’s lawyers file an emergency injunction to seize my hard drives."

He pulled the sedan into the basement garage of an unfinished high-rise near the river and killed the engine.

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

"I can't protect you, Odessa," he said, turning to look at me. His voice softened, cracked with exhaustion. "Marcus’s men are trailing my car. Joe's reporters are camped outside my apartment. If you stay with me, they’ll use you to force my hand."

"I don't have anywhere else to go."

"I know." Anson reached into his pocket and pulled out an encrypted burner phone, pressing it into my palm. "That's why I called him."

The sound of leather soles echoing against damp concrete made me jump.

A man stepped out from the shadows near the support pillar. Tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in a pristine black tailored suit, he moved without a sound. His dark hair was combed back cleanly, accentuating razor-sharp cheekbones and slate-gray eyes that fixed directly on mine.

A heavy, suffocating pressure instantly filled the space between us.

"Walter," Anson breathed, stepping out of the car.

Walter didn't look at my brother. His eyes remained locked on my face, dissecting me with terrifying precision.

"You're late, Anson," Walter said. His voice was smooth, quiet, and carried the weight of an iron vault swinging shut.

"Traffic was crawling near the chapel," Anson answered quickly, his tone unusually cautious. "Did you secure the perimeter?"

"Your tail lost you three blocks back," Walter replied. He stopped two paces from my door, tilting his head slightly. "Step out, Miss Vance."

I stayed planted in the seat, clutching my bag against my ribs. "Who are you?"

"A friend of your brother," Walter said evenly. "And your only lifeline."

"I'm not getting in a car with a stranger," I countered, looking over at Anson. "Anson, I can stay at a hotel. I have cash in my—"

"You have nothing," Walter interrupted. He extended a hand toward the door handle, pulling it wide open with effortless authority. "Your accounts are zeroed out. Your face is on every tabloid from here to Chicago. Within two hours, Joe Gallagher’s press contacts will have your location pinned."

"I can handle Joe," I lied, my voice shaking despite my best efforts.

A ghost of an amused smirk touched Walter’s lips, though his eyes stayed stone cold. "You couldn't handle him this morning. What makes you think tonight will be different?"

The jab hit like an open palm across my face. I flushed hot. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." Walter stepped back, creating space, but his posture blocked the only exit to the garage ramp. "You have no choice right now. Come with me."

"Go with him, Odessa," Anson urged quietly. "I trust Walter with my life. He’s the only person in this city Marcus and Joe can't touch."

I stared at Walter’s outstretched hand. I didn't take it.

I climbed out of the sedan on my own, brushing past him toward the sleek black town car idling near the ramp.

Walter didn't protest my defiance. He simply followed, nodding once to Anson before opening the rear passenger door for me.

"Find the ledgers, Anson," Walter said softly over the roof of the vehicle. "I will handle the rest."

***

The drive lasted forty minutes in suffocating silence.

We passed through wrought-iron gates, up a winding private drive lined with towering pines, stopping before a three-story limestone manor that looked more like a private fortress than a residence.

As soon as the car stopped, two men in gray suits stepped forward to open my door.

"Straight inside, please," the first guard said, gesturing with an open palm.

I walked through the double doors into a cavernous foyer paved in dark marble. A middle-aged woman in a crisp uniform immediately took my coat. Another guard stood post at the bottom of the curved staircase.

I spun around as Walter walked through the entrance, stripping off his suit jacket and handing it to a maid.

"Where is my room?" I asked, crossing my arms. "And why are there four security guards stationed in a private hallway?"

"Six," Walter corrected mildly. "Two at the rear terrace."

"I don't need protection inside a house."

"You need whatever I deem necessary," he answered, walking past me toward a low glass bar. He poured two fingers of amber liquor into a tumbler. "You won't leave this estate without my driver. You won't use unmonitored networks. You won't make calls without my clearance."

My temper, pushed past its limit since morning, finally shattered.

"Excuse me?" I marched right up to the bar, glaring up at him. "Anson asked you to help me, not throw me in solitary confinement!"

Walter took a slow sip, his gaze unhurried as it traveled over my furrowed brow and clenched fists. "Your brother asked me to keep you alive and out of Marcus’s reach. This is how I do it."

"Are you taking care of me, or monitoring me?" I spat.

Walter set his glass down on the counter with a quiet, sharp clink.

"Both," he said.

"I am not your prisoner!"

"You're free to walk out those gates," Walter murmured, stepping close enough that I caught the faint scent of cedarwood and crisp linen. "Of course, Marcus's men are parked six hundred yards down the county road. Joe's private investigator is sitting at the junction. How long do you think you last out there before they drag you into a deposition room?"

I swallowed hard, the fight draining into bitter ashes. "You're enjoying this."

"I don't feel joy, Miss Vance. I value efficiency." He motioned toward the grand staircase. "Third floor. The room at the end of the left corridor is yours. Dinner is served at eight."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned toward his study and closed the door.

Trembling with rage, I hurried up the stairs, desperate to find four walls where no one was staring at me.

The third-floor hallway was quiet, lined with dark wood paneling and vintage sconces. I made my way toward the left wing, but as I passed the central junction, an odd draft brushed my skin.

I stopped.

At the very end of the right corridor sat an iron-reinforced oak door.

Unlike the other rooms with standard brass handles, this door was fitted with a heavy deadbolt and a glowing digital biometric pad. No light crept beneath the threshold.

A chill crept down my neck.

I took one step toward it.

"I wouldn't go near that door, Miss Vance."

I whirled around. One of the security guards stood ten feet behind me, his hands folded across his belt, his expression completely blank.

"What's in there?" I demanded.

"That room stays locked," the guard replied coldly. "Mr. Walter's orders. Forever."