Three days after marrying me, Roman Calder abandoned me inside a freezing manor on the edge of Lake Erie and drove away without looking back.

Sleep did not come easily that night.

The wind howled off Lake Erie, rattling the heavy shutters of the master bedroom in the east wing. I lay beneath three layers of heavy down blankets, staring up at the grand plaster ceiling, my mind churning with Roman's words.

I spent three years tearing apart the Detroit faction to ensure that the men who killed my father never found out where I put my wife.

Was it the truth? Or was it merely a master manipulator’s way of rewriting history to justify his cruelty?

A sharp, painful coughing fit suddenly seized my chest. I sat up quickly, clutching my throat as my compromised lungs rebelled against the sudden drop in bedroom temperature. I reached for the glass of water on my nightstand, my hands shaking, and took three agonizing, shallow breaths until the spasm finally passed.

I needed warm tea.

Wrapping a heavy velvet robe around my nightgown, I slipped on my slippers and stepped out into the dark hallway. The manor was quiet, save for the rhythmic creaking of the old timbers settling under the weight of the snow.

As I made my way down the gallery toward the central staircase, I noticed a faint glow of light bleeding out from beneath the double doors of the long-abandoned West Wing.

I froze.

The West Wing was supposed to be empty. It was the section of the estate I hadn't renovated yet—the wing where Roman's late mother had spent her final months.

Holding my breath, I crept down the corridor, my velvet slippers making no sound against the Persian runners. I reached the wooden doors and pushed one open an inch, peering through the gap.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single desk lamp.

Roman sat in a high-backed leather chair behind his late father's massive oak desk. He had pulled off his sweater, wearing only a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On the desk in front of him were blueprints, financial ledgers, and a thick stack of surveillance photographs.

Standing beside him was a man I hadn't seen arrive—a tall, lean man in a tactical jacket with a scar running across his left jawline.

"The perimeter is secure for now, Roman," the scarred man said in a low, raspy voice. "But Viktor's men tracked your convoy as far as Rochester. They know you came back to New York."

"Viktor is desperate," Roman replied, his voice cold and analytical. "He lost his ports in Detroit. He knows his remaining lieutenants will abandon him if he doesn't make a move soon."

"He knows about the girl," the man added.

Roman's head snapped up. "What did you say?"

"He knows you're at Grayhaven with Evelyn. He thinks she's your weak point. He thinks if he takes her, he can force you to hand over the Buffalo shipping docks."

A chilling, terrifying silence descended on the room.

Roman slowly stood up from the desk. His face transformed into something terrifying—a mask of absolute, unadulterated rage that made the air in the hallway feel thin.

"If Viktor sets one foot on this property," Roman said, each word laced with pure venom, "I will hang his body from the entrance gates and let the lake frost preserve him. Tell Marcus to double the guards along the treeline. Nobody comes within two miles of this house without my explicit authorization."

"Understood," the scarred man nodded, turning to leave toward the side balcony door.

I backed away from the door quickly, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He hadn't come back to reclaim his property. He hadn't come back because he missed his wife or wanted a divorce. He had come back because a war was following him from Detroit—and he had brought it straight to my doorstep.

"Evelyn."

I gasped, spinning around.

Roman was standing in the doorway of the office. I hadn't even heard him move. He stood illuminated by the faint light of the hallway lamp, his broad frame blocking the exit, his eyes fixed on me with intense scrutiny.

"How much of that did you hear?" he asked quietly.

I straightened my spine, forcing my shaking hands into the pockets of my velvet robe. "Enough to know that you lied to me at dinner."

Roman didn't answer right away. He walked toward me, his heavy steps measured and silent. He stopped two feet away, looking down at my pale face, noticing the slight tremor in my breathing from my earlier coughing fit.

"You're cold," he noted, his voice softening slightly. "You shouldn't be wandering the halls at three in the morning."

"Don't worry about my health, Roman," I snapped, my fear giving way to sharp, burning anger. "You brought a target to Grayhaven! You brought a gang war to a house filled with innocent children and elderly staff!"

"I didn't bring the war here to endanger you, Evelyn," Roman said, stepping closer. "I came here because Grayhaven is the most heavily fortified estate in Western New York. The walls are three feet of solid stone. The glass in the east wing was reinforced two years ago under my orders."

"Under your orders?" I laughed bitterly. "I paid those contractors!"

"Where do you think those contractors came from, Evelyn?" Roman asked, leaning down so his dark eyes were level with mine. "Do you really think a high-security firm from New York City agreed to travel to Lake Erie in the middle of January for a small-town schoolteacher without a push from my organization? You built your paradise, Evelyn, but I laid the steel beneath your foundation."

I stared at him, stunned into silence.

The security upgrades, the reinforced windows I had thought were just high-end storm panes, the specialized heating system that Caleb had installed—it had all been facilitated by Roman's hidden hand from three hundred miles away.

"Why?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "Why do all of this in secret? Why leave me to think you hated me?"

Roman reached out, his hand slowly rising until his warm, calloused fingers brushed against the side of my neck, right over my thumping pulse. The heat of his hand sent a shockwave through my entire body, melting the cold air around us.

"Because as long as the world believed I abandoned you," Roman whispered, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat, "you were invisible to my enemies. A discarded wife is safe. A cherished wife is a target."