My father gambled with the wrong family.
Now I’m the debt. Dominic Moreau doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.
He’s the kind of man who gets what he wants through stillness alone, through the weight of his attention, through the way a room changes when he walks into it.
The arrangement is simple: live in his house, appear at his side, keep his secrets. I’m good at rules. I’ve survived my whole life by reading rooms and finding exits.
What I’m not prepared for is what I find when I stop running and start looking. A federal case file with my mother’s name in it. A family secret buried for twenty years.
And a man who might be the only person who’s ever told me the truth, in a house built entirely on lies. Dominic says he didn’t know. I’m trained to read people. I almost believe him. Almost.
The arrangement was supposed to be temporary. I was supposed to leave. I’m starting to understand why I can’t.
