The Exiled Heiress Makes Her Comeback

Ansley pushed through the revolving glass doors of the hospital.

A blast of freezing wind hit her face. The rain felt like tiny needles against her skin.

Sam immediately stepped forward. He tilted the massive black umbrella over her head, shielding her from the storm. He didn't smile. He just reached out and pulled the heavy rear door of the Maybach open.

It was a respectful gesture, but it was an absolute command.

Ansley had nowhere to run. She bent her head and slid into the backseat.

The air inside the car smelled heavily of expensive leather and polish. The second Sam slammed the door shut, the sound of the storm vanished. The silence inside the cabin was thick enough to choke on.

The Maybach pulled away from the curb smoothly. It merged onto Fifth Avenue.

Ansley stared out the tinted window. The neon lights of the city blurred together in the rain. She twisted the belt of her trench coat around her fingers, pulling the fabric so tight her knuckles ached.

The car turned into the heavily guarded underground garage of an ultra-luxury building on the Upper East Side.

The tires squeaked against the polished concrete floor as the car parked.

Ansley got out. She followed Sam toward a private elevator tucked away in the corner. Sam stepped aside. Ansley leaned forward and let the red laser scan her retina.

The doors slid open. She stepped inside alone.

The elevator shot upward at a sickening speed. Ansley's stomach dropped to her shoes. Acid burned the back of her throat.

Ding.

The doors parted. The elevator opened directly into a massive, cold-toned minimalist living room.

Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, stood waiting by the entrance. She reached out and took Ansley's dripping coat.

"Welcome home, Miss Ansley," Mrs. Gable said softly. Her eyes held a flicker of complicated pity.

Ansley looked around. The apartment looked exactly the same as it did five years ago. Not a single throw pillow had been moved. The angle of the coffee table was identical. The obsessive control in the room made her skin crawl.

From the deep shadows near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sharp clink of ice hitting crystal echoed through the room.

Ansley's spine locked. Her eyes slowly dragged toward the single armchair in the dark corner.

Emery Holcomb stood up.

He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit. His dress shoes made absolutely no sound against the thick wool rug as he stepped out of the shadows.

He walked into the halo of light cast by the crystal chandelier. His face was flawless. It was a face carved from marble, and right now, it held zero emotion.

Ansley took a half-step backward. Her shoulder blades hit the cold wall behind her.

Emery's eyes were like physical weights. They dragged over her forehead, down her neck, across her chest, and all the way to the tips of her shoes. He was dissecting every change in her over the last five years.

He set his glass down on a side table.

Then, he closed the distance between them in three long strides.

Ansley squeezed her eyes shut. She braced her body for the screaming.

Instead, she was pulled into a chest that smelled of cedarwood and dark tobacco.

Emery's arms wrapped around her waist. He pulled her flush against his body. The force of his grip was terrifying. He squeezed her so hard her ribs groaned under the pressure. She couldn't pull air into her lungs.

He rested his chin near her temple. His breathing was perfectly steady, but the muscles in his arms were coiled tight as steel.

"Welcome home, Ansley," he murmured. His voice was smooth, cultured, and terrifyingly calm. "I have been waiting for you."

Ansley's arms hovered in the air. She didn't wrap them around his back. She just stood there, rigid as a board, enduring the crush of his body.

Emery felt her stiffness. He pulled back slightly. A dark cloud passed over his eyes, but it vanished instantly, replaced by the gentle mask of a perfect older brother.

He lifted his hand. His long fingers brushed a wet strand of hair away from her cheek. The touch was so light it made the hairs on her arms stand up.

"You triggered a million-dollar wire transfer that alerted the family office," Emery said softly, his thumb tracing her jawline. "For a bankrupt company owned by an outsider. Do you know what our parents will do when they find out?"

Ansley bit down on her lower lip. She forced herself to look him in the eyes.

"Kegan is not an outsider," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "She is my best friend."

The gentle smile on Emery's face froze. His eyes turned black and dangerous.

He pressed his thumb hard against her lower lip, right over the spot she had just bitten. He rubbed the red mark until it stung.

"In this city, Ansley," Emery said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "I am the only one you rely on."

The rattle of a serving cart broke the tension. Mrs. Gable pushed it into the room, her eyes glued to the floor.

Emery dropped his hand. The dangerous aura vanished. He stepped back and adjusted his cuffs.

"Go to the dining room," Emery ordered, his tone suddenly light and casual. "Mother and Father will be here any minute."