The ultrasound pictures were still warm from my fingers when my mother-in-law threw them into the kitchen trash.

The ferry ride to San Juan Island was shrouded in a thick, slate-gray maritime fog that swallowed the horizon and made the world feel entirely disconnected from reality. As the heavy steel hull of the vessel bumped against the slip in Friday Harbor, Roman guided our battered sedan off the ramp and onto the winding, tree-lined asphalt roads. According to the GPS, Cliffwood Manor was perched on the westernmost edge of the island, where the land abruptly terminated into sheer, jagged drops above the churning Pacific. An hour later, the dense pine forest parted, and the estate revealed itself like a brooding leviathan carved out of gray stone and slate. It was magnificent, haunting, and utterly isolated. High stone walls flanked a wrought-iron gate that swung open smoothly, as if sensing our approach. The main house was a sprawling masterpiece of Gothic-revival architecture, with towering arched windows, slate roofs covered in emerald moss, and massive stone chimneys that rose like monuments into the overcast sky. We parked the car in the gravel courtyard, the crunch of our tires sounding deafeningly loud in the profound silence of the property. "Well," Roman said, cutting the engine and turning to me with a wry smile. "It beats a two-bedroom apartment in the city." "It’s breathtaking," I breathed, stepping out of the car and pulling my woolen cardigan tighter around my swelling belly. The air here smelled intensely of salt spray, wet pine needles, and wild sage. It was wild, untamed, and entirely ours. As we walked up the grand stone steps to the heavy oak double doors, I noticed something peculiar. The brass knocker—a snarling wolf’s head, the old Rossi crest—had been polished to a brilliant shine. Someone was maintaining the estate. Before Roman could even reach for the brass ring, the heavy door swung inward with a faint, oiled creak. Standing in the cavernous, vaulted entryway was an elderly woman with sharp, intelligent eyes, silver hair pulled back into a severe bun, and a tailored black suit that looked decades out of style. She looked at us not with surprise, but with the quiet, expectant gaze of a general receiving new commanders. "Mrs. Rossi," the woman said, her voice dry, precise, and carrying a faint, aristocratic European accent. "We have been expecting you. I am Mrs. Gable, the estate manager. Welcome to Cliffwood." I blinked, momentarily stunned. "Mrs. Gable? You knew we were coming?" "Mistress Margaret left strict instructions before her passing," Mrs. Gable replied smoothly, stepping aside to let us cross the threshold into a magnificent foyer dominated by a sweeping spiral staircase and oil paintings of stormy seas. "She stipulated that the moment the Zurich deed was unsealed, you would arrive within forty-eight hours. She instructed me to prepare the East Wing for the nursery, and your private study on the third floor, madam." Roman exchanged a bewildered look with me. Even in death, Margaret Rossi was pulling strings across space and time, orchestrating our lives with terrifying precision. But as I looked around the breathtaking, light-filled foyer, feeling the solid, historic weight of the stone walls around us, I realized something liberating. Margaret had built this fortress to isolate her enemies. We were going to use it to build our empire.