Chapter 1

The air in the Houston country club was thick with the smell of money and expensive perfume. It was my welcome-home party, but I hadn' t wanted it. After years in the Middle East building my own energy venture, the last thing I wanted was to play nice with the same faces I' d left behind.

I walked in, my suit tailored, my expression unreadable. My eyes scanned the room, a practiced move, assessing power dynamics in seconds. And then I saw them.

Jennifer Todd, my ex-girlfriend, was leaning into my half-brother, Andrew. Her hand was on his arm, her laughter a little too loud. Andrew, looking every bit the aspiring actor he was, soaked it in. He looked almost exactly like me, a cheap copy down to the way he held his champagne glass.

Jen' s smile froze when she saw me. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic in them. She started to stand, to come to me.

I cut her off before she could take a step. I walked straight to their table, my gaze cold enough to drop the temperature.

"Ryan," she breathed, her voice a mix of hope and fear.

I ignored her outstretched hand. I looked at her, then at Andrew, and my lip curled just slightly.

"Ms. Todd," I said. The formal address was a slap. It erased years of history, of us being Houston's "it" couple. It made her a stranger.

Her face fell. The color drained from it.

Then I turned to Andrew. He was trying to look confident, but a bead of sweat was forming on his temple. He hated when I looked at him like this. He always had.

"You're getting better at the imitation," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Almost perfect."

I leaned in, close enough for them and the people at the next table to hear. I pointed to the small, white scar that cut through my left eyebrow, a souvenir from a childhood fall.

"But you'll always be a flawed copy. You're missing the original's mark."

Andrew flinched as if I' d hit him. Jen just stared, her mouth slightly open, caught between the man she wanted and the man she had settled for.

She turned on Andrew, her voice a harsh whisper. "Get out."

"Jen, come on," he pleaded, his actor's charm failing him completely.

"I said get out!" she hissed, pushing him away. He stumbled back, humiliated, and fled the room.

Jen turned back to me, her eyes wet. "Ryan, I can explain. It wasn't... I missed you."

I just looked at her. Her tears meant nothing to me. Her loyalty was a commodity she had traded away.

"There's nothing to explain," I said, my voice flat. I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. "You made your choice."

I turned my back on her and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of my welcome-home party.

Across the room, I saw her. Gabrielle Chadwick. The reclusive New Orleans heiress. She was sitting alone, a picture of calm in the chaos. She held a vintage silver rosary in her hands, her fingers still. Our eyes met for a brief second. She didn't smile. She didn't look away. She just watched me, her gaze steady and deep.

I raised my glass to her in a silent toast.

She looked at my glass, then back at me, and gave a slow, almost imperceptible shake of her head before turning her attention back to the rosary in her lap.

Interesting. The first person all night who wasn' t trying to get something from me. I made a mental note. The Chadwick family was old money, powerful in ways Fowler Oil wasn't. A potential ally. And Gabrielle Chadwick was a mystery I suddenly wanted to solve.