Grant Holloway saw a dead woman through the window of a baby store. At least, she was supposed to be dead.

Grant’s thumb hovered over the screen.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He just stared at the reflection in the dirty apartment window behind Jolene.

Vance.

His younger brother.

The brother who was supposed to be running the Holloway Organization’s legal division in Boston. The brother who had flown down for the funeral of their father, wept at the graveside, and sworn loyalty to Grant.

Vance was standing in a rundown apartment in Savannah, watching a woman Grant had mourned for five months.

Grant stood up. His heavy oak chair scraped against the hardwood floor, the sound harsh in the dead silence of his office. He grabbed his coat.

He didn’t call Trent. He didn’t call his security detail.

This was blood. This was handled alone.

The drive to the address took twelve minutes. Grant parked his car two blocks away, in the shadow of a rusted overpass. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of quiet that meant people knew how to mind their own business. Streetlights flickered, casting long, broken shadows over the cracked pavement.

Grant walked with purpose. No rushing. No panic. Just the steady, measured stride of a man walking into a burning building.

He found the apartment building from the photograph. Three stories of faded red brick. A rusted fire escape clinging to the side.

He bypassed the front door, slipping through the broken iron gate that led to the alley. He climbed the fire escape, his dark coat blending into the night. Second floor. Third window.

The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of yellow light leaked through a gap.

Grant stepped onto the rusted landing. He didn’t look through the glass. He didn’t need to. He simply raised his boot and kicked the lock right out of the window frame.

Wood splintered. Glass shattered inward.

Grant stepped through the ruined frame before the glass even hit the floor.

The living room was small, smelling of old dust and cheap coffee. Vance was standing by the kitchen counter, freezing mid-motion, a glass of water halfway to his mouth.

Vance’s eyes widened. He dropped the glass. It shattered, water pooling over the cheap linoleum.

"Grant," Vance choked out, stepping back until his shoulders hit the refrigerator.

Grant didn’t speak. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Vance by the collar of his expensive linen shirt, and slammed him against the wall. The drywall cracked under the impact.

"Where is she?" Grant’s voice was a low, terrifying rasp.

Vance struggled, his hands desperately gripping Grant’s wrists. "Grant, listen to me. You don’t understand—"

"I asked you a question." Grant pressed his forearm against Vance’s throat. Just enough to cut the air by half. "Where is Jolene?"

"She’s safe!" Vance gasped, his face turning red. "I’m keeping her safe!"

Grant eased the pressure, just a fraction. "Safe from what?"

Vance swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically. "From Desmond. From you."

Grant froze. The words hit him like a physical blow. From you.

"Desmond wanted her gone," Vance croaked, his hands trembling. "He said she was a liability. A distraction. When she got pregnant… he decided to eliminate the problem. I found out. I forged the certificate. I hid her."

For a second, the narrative clicked into place. It made a sick, twisted kind of sense. Desmond, the ruthless uncle, protecting the family empire from a complicated heir. Vance, the softer brother, playing savior.

Grant loosened his grip entirely. Vance slumped forward, coughing, rubbing his throat.

"You faked her death," Grant said, his voice flat. "You let me mourn her. And you kept her here. Like a prisoner."

"I saved her life!" Vance argued, his voice rising in defensive anger. "Desmond’s men would have found her anywhere else. I had to keep her close. I had to monitor her."

Grant looked around the room. It was sparse. Too sparse. No personal items. No books. Just the bare minimum required to keep someone alive.

Then he noticed the coat hanging on the back of a kitchen chair. It was Vance’s cashmere overcoat.

Sticking out of the pocket was a small, heavy iron padlock.

Grant’s eyes narrowed. Why would Vance need a heavy-duty exterior padlock for a third-floor walk-up?

Unless it wasn’t to keep people out.

Before Grant could process the thought, the bedroom door clicked open.

Grant turned.

Jolene stood in the doorway.

She looked exactly as she had in the store, but closer now, the reality of her struck him breathless. The dark hair. The gray-blue eyes. The heavy, beautiful curve of her stomach.

She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t crying.