Chapter 2

Kendall Rutledge POV:

I left the phone buzzing on the leather seat and kept my foot flat on the accelerator, watching the Boston skyline disappear behind me.

Twenty minutes later, the Porsche rolled to a stop in front of the ornate wrought-iron gates of the Rutledge estate.

This house belonged to my parents before the Alps plane crash, carrying over a century of our family's sports legacy.

I pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner at the gate pillar.

A harsh red light flashed across the display: Access Denied.

I tilted my head, studying the red glow with quiet amusement.

Destin had certainly moved fast. I had only been out for an hour to handle a brief site emergency at the local training camp.

I reached out and hit the hardwired emergency intercom.

Three full minutes passed before the iron gates finally groaned open.

I drove up the winding driveway and parked outside the front entrance.

As I stepped out, the heavy oak doors opened, revealing Martha, Destin's distant cousin whom he had installed as the estate's head housekeeper.

"My goodness, ma'am, why are you returning so late?" Martha stood in the entryway, arms crossed over her apron, her chin lifted with unearned arrogance. "Mr. Fowler gave strict orders that the gates stay locked after ten."

Destin had promised her a raise and hinted that the estate would soon belong to “the right people,” which was why she dared to bare her teeth at me.

I didn't spare her a single word.

I stepped past her across the threshold, my heels striking the black-and-white marble with sharp, heavy clatter.

The grand foyer reeked of cheap, cloying vanilla perfume.

Draped carelessly over the arm of the velvet sofa was a pink lace shawl that did not belong to me.

Kyleigh had clearly been playing lady of the house while I was gone.

Martha trailed behind me, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor as she picked up a steaming porcelain bowl from the coffee table.

"Ma'am, Mr. Fowler personally ordered this bird's nest soup simmered for Miss Hubbard's health," Martha sneered, stepping directly into my path. "Be careful not to knock it over. Miss Hubbard needs her strength."

She thrust the bowl toward my chest, the scalding steam curling inches from my skin.

Her eyes gleamed with open insolence.

I stopped walking.

I turned around, my gaze locking onto her face with an intensity that sucked the air out of the foyer.

"What did you just call me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Martha blinked, momentarily taken aback, before rolling her eyes. "I called you ma'am. What, did you have a bad day outside and now you're taking it out on the staff?"

Before she could finish her sentence, my hand shot forward.

I locked my fingers around her wrist and twisted upward with sudden, violent force.

The porcelain bowl slipped from her grip and shattered against the marble floor with a deafening crack.

Scalding broth and jagged ceramic shards exploded across the tiles, splashing directly over Martha's thin shoes.

She let out a piercing shriek, jumping backward and clutching her ankles as she stared at me in terror.

"Are you insane?" Martha screamed, her face flushed with fury. "Mr. Fowler bought that!"

I pulled a silk handkerchief from my bag and methodically wiped a drop of moisture from my knuckles.

I looked down at her where she cowered.

"Every stone, every timber, and every inch of soil on this estate belongs to the Rutledge name," I said, each word landing like an iron weight. "No one with the name Fowler has the authority to issue orders in this house."

The noise brought the rest of the household staff to the corridor entrance.

Three other relatives Destin had hired peered around the archway, their faces pale as they saw the broken porcelain.

I took out my phone and dialed the estate security dispatch.

"Security team to the main salon. Now."

Within forty-five seconds, four armed, licensed security guards in dark uniforms entered through the side entrance, their hands resting over their utility belts.

"Miss Rutledge," the lead officer said, dipping his head respectfully. "Your orders?"

Martha scrambled to her feet, her voice trembling. "What are you doing? When Destin hears about this, he'll throw you out!"

"Remove this woman from the property immediately," I told the guards, pointing at Martha. "And take that cheap pink shawl with her. Throw it past the outer perimeter."

Two guards stepped forward without hesitation, seizing Martha by the elbows and lifting her off her feet as she kicked and screamed Destin's name.

They dragged her down the front steps into the cold night.

I turned my attention to the remaining three staff members huddled in the hallway.

"You have ten minutes to pack your personal belongings," I said, my voice perfectly level. "If a single piece of Rutledge property is missing from your bags, my lawyers will have you booked into federal holding before sunrise."

They scattered like mice, racing toward the servants' wing in utter panic.

Silence reclaimed the foyer.

I stepped carefully over the shattered porcelain and climbed the sweeping staircase to the master suite.

The lingering scent of Destin's cologne in the bedroom made my throat tighten with revulsion.

I called the estate management service directly.

"Send a professional sanitation crew at eight in the morning. Every mattress, sheet set, and piece of upholstered furniture in the master suite is to be stripped, burned, and replaced with fresh linens."

I hung up and looked at the framed wedding photo on the vanity.

Before I could pick it up, my phone vibrated in my palm.

It was a text from Destin:

"I need you dressed in formal evening wear tomorrow at seven. The Children's Sports Charity Gala is expecting us. Don't be late."