Chapter 3 - The Gate of Wolves
By nine-forty-five on Sunday morning, the winding mountain pass leading up to Blackwood Ridge was lined with luxury sedans.
Claire drove her battered 2008 pickup truck, the heater rattling like a tin can full of rocks. In the passenger seat sat two massive wicker baskets covered in clean linen, steaming with golden brioche, fresh apple-cider scones, braided challah, and a pot of homemade honey-butter she had churned at four in the morning.
The iron gates of Blackwood Manor stood open like the jaws of a sleeping beast. The estate was massive, carved from gray granite and dark timber against the backdrop of snowy pine forests. It looked like an old European fortress—impenetrable, arrogant, and isolated.
Parked along the circular driveway were sleek town cars carrying the pride of Greyhaven.
Claire watched as Victoria Sterling stepped out of a silver Mercedes, wearing four-inch designer heels in three inches of fresh slush. She was flanked by three other daughters of prominent merchants, dressed in silk blouses, fur wraps, and heavy perfume that made Claire want to sneeze from thirty feet away.
“Claire?” Victoria’s voice dripped with poisonous disbelief. She halted on the stone steps, surveying Claire’s fleece-lined denim jacket, dark jeans, and sturdy waterproof boots. “Did Vincent hire you to cater the tea service through the kitchen entrance? Deliveries are around the back, sweetie.”
Claire grabbed her heavy baskets without flinching. Her muscular arms handled the weight effortlessly. “I was invited through the front door, Victoria. Watch your heel—the ice doesn’t care about Italian leather.”
Before Victoria could snap back, the massive oak front doors swung wide.
Standing in the entryway was not a butler, but Vincent Vance himself. He wore black trousers and a charcoal sweater with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, revealing dark, intricate ink curling over his wrists—tattoos that whispered of syndicate bloodlines and old violence.
His dark eyes swept over the line of shivering socialites.
Then his gaze landed on Claire. He looked at her flushed cheeks, the curl of brown hair escaping her woolen beanie, and the sheer abundance of hot bread resting in her arms.
A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his lips.
“You’re five minutes early, Miss Miller,” he said.
“Bread cools down if you’re late,” Claire replied evenly.
A blood-curdling shriek from inside the foyer interrupted them.
Suddenly, Ryan darted past Vincent’s legs at top speed, covered from ear to collarbone in blue finger paint, holding a terrified white cat. Hot on his heels was Leo, the oldest at fourteen, screaming profanities, while four-year-old Maya sat on the hardwood floor crying because she had lost one of her socks.
Victoria Sterling gasped, recoiling behind her mother. “Good heavens! Are they completely feral? Mr. Vance, do you not have armed security to manage this chaos?”
Vincent didn’t flinch, but his eyes turned like chips of black ice. He stepped aside, opening the doorway entirely.
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“The audition is open, ladies,” Vincent announced, his voice dripping with pure ice. “Who wants to show me how they run my home?”
***
