Laughter.
“I miss Mr. Caplan. He was always so sweet to me,” a younger voice said. Her tone was warm and affectionate.
“Ahh, the old coot retired in the countryside,” Connie replied, her voice full of fondness. “Your baking skills have become better than mine.”
“Do you remember when my steamed pudding exploded?” the girl asked with a breathy laugh.
I crept closer.
“When your mum and Mr. Voss came back, it was only then that I noticed some of it still stuck on the ceiling,” Connie added.
Everly’s laugh rang out—light, genuine. I stepped into view.
She was standing at the kitchen island, a dark pink hoodie hanging off her frame. Her long, silky black hair brushed against the curve of her ass as she leaned forward slightly. Nothing like her mother’s carefully bleached highlights or bone-straight styling. No, this hair looked real. Effortless.
My eyes dropped—those skin-tight jeans the younger generation wore, moulded to her hips and that wide, roundedass. A full, solid figure. Unlike Eris, who was all angles and maintenance. Even her boots were sensible—flat-soled, ankle-length, the tops lined with cheap fluff.
“You stopped coming home,” Connie said softly.
Everly shrugged beneath her oversized hoodie. “She was never home. And if she was…” Her voice trailed off, unfinished.
Connie must’ve seen the shift, because she changed the subject instantly.
“Uff, never mind,” she said, picking up a fork. “I’m stealing this recipe from you. This chocolate cake is outrageous.”
“Mmm,” she added with her mouth full.
I scratched the back of my head.
This wasn’t what I expected.
Eris had always kept her distance from the staff—except for Henson, of course. Bert, the best groundskeeper I ever had, retired a few years back. Connie had been here the longest. She was loyal and honest.
And now she was smiling like she’d just seen a ghost return from the dead.
I kept my face neutral, but my mind was turning.
This girl—Everly—she didn’t look like her mother.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t just as dangerous.
Chapter 4
Everly
Even as Connie bit into her cake, I could feel his eyes on me. The temptation was too much—I lifted my gaze.
There he was.
Silas Voss.
The industrialist. The man who controlled a hefty chunk of the global market. Multiple factories, international operations, a reputation for being ruthless. For a man only forty-three, that was impressive.
I almost pitied him for marrying my mother.
My gaze slid over his suit. Tailored. Designer. No doubt the entire ensemble cost more than some people’s annual rent. He looked every inch the cold executive: sharp suit, sharper jaw. His tie—deep blue—pulled attention back to his eyes. Icy. Calculating. The kind of eyes that didn’t miss much.
There was stubble on his jaw, just enough to make him look less polished. More dangerous.
