Page 213 of Money Reigns
And I don’t know if I want to scream, sob, or run.
By the time we round the corner, my chest is tight, my breath uneven.
The late-morning sun glints off snow-covered rooftops, too bright for how shaky I feel inside. Ella pulls me into a hug, fierce and grounding, then tips her head toward the inn across the street. “I’ll be right there if you need me.”
I cling to her for a heartbeat longer before letting go. She starts across the road, her hair catching the light, and I watch until she’s gone.
Then it’s just me.
Me, staring at my family’s porch steps like they’re a gallows.
I force one breath. Then another. My legs move even though every part of me screams to run, and the creak of the first step echoes up my spine.
War is inside.
Waiting.
With my brothers.
And my dad.
I take a deep breath.
I don’t know if I’m walking into forgiveness or ruin.
Chapter forty-five
War
Ishould’ve taken a regular flight. Air Beaumont drew more attention than I wanted, commotion, cameras, a fuss that left me itching to be anywhere else. But when I leave here, it’ll be with Olivia, and she deserves the best, whether she wants it or not.
I had to call a taxi to drive me into Brokenwoods, and the ride feels like entering another world. The streets are narrow, lived-in, lined with weathered storefronts that have been here longer than my family’s empire. Small. Soft. Quiet. The kind of place that folds in on itself. No wonder Olivia is always trying to make herself smaller,hidden.Doesn’t think she shines the way she does.
The car pulls to a stop in front of a two-story building with a wooden sign partially cover by snow,Baker’s Inn.Paint peeling. Porch steps sagging. But there’s a warmth to it, the kind of place people return to year after year. I step out, bag in hand, and tip the driver.
I turn, my eyes lift across the street.
Her parents’ house. Quaint. Nostalgic. Curtains drawn back just enough to see blurred photos framed in the fogged window. The kind of home that feels like it has roots sunk deep in the earth.
And standing in front of it, three men; in flannels and sweaters, arms folded across their chests like a human barricade. Her brothers, no doubt. Beside them, an older man whose presence is sharper, heavier.
Olivia’s father.
I square my shoulders, grateful I didn’t wear a suit this time. Wool sweater under my thick coat, dark jeans—casual, but intentional. I was right to go this way.
The men don’t move as I cross the street. Arms stay folded. Feet planted. Cold wind cuts down the block, but none of them flinch. A line I’ll have to walk through to get to her.
Pecking order matters.Always.
I stop first in front of the older man. His shoulders are straight, his jaw set, but his eyes are steady rather than hostile. I extend my hand. “Mr. Baker.”
His grip is firm, testing. “Call me John.”
I incline my head once. A man like him respects brevity more than charm.
Then my attention shifts to the three brothers.
The eldest is easy to peg. Logan. His narrowed eyes haven’t left me since I stepped out of the cab, sharp and calculating, the same way I’d watch a man I didn’t trust. He’s sizing me up.Measuring.
