Chapter 2 - The Lock and the Lies
The wind coming off the Blue Ridge Mountains was bitter, carrying the sharp, pine-scented chill of late autumn. It swept across the wide stone porch, rustling the hem of my coat and chilling the skin of my face.
In my arms, wrapped in three layers of soft pink fleece, three-day-old Elodie shifted, letting out a faint, kitten-like squeak. I instinctively pressed her closer to my chest, shielding her from the draft with my body, while my right hand tried the brass handle of the front door again.
It did not budge. The deadbolt was completely seized.
I looked down at the key in my trembling fingers. It was the master key—the one I had held in my hands when I oversaw the installation of the grand oak entrance doors six months ago. I had selected the heavy, brushed-bronze hardware myself from a specialty foundry in Atlanta. I knew every click, every tumbler, every smooth turn of that lock.
Someone had removed the cylinder and replaced it with a cheap, shiny chrome lock that didn't belong on a one-point-five-million-dollar custom home.
"Mom?" I called out, my voice raspy and thin from three days of labor, exhaustion, and crying alone in a sterile hospital room. "Dad?"
I knocked. Once. Twice. The heavy oak absorbed the sound, dull and thick.
Through the narrow frosted-glass sidelights, I saw a shadow move in the foyer. A moment later, the door swung open.
It wasn't my mother. It wasn't my father.
It was Griffin.
My older brother stood in the doorway wearing a plush, navy-blue cashmere robe that still had the tag strings hanging from the collar—a robe I had bought for my father as a housewarming gift and left wrapped on the kitchen counter. In his right hand, Griffin held a crystal tumbler filled with single-malt scotch. My husband’s scotch. The bottle Nathaniel had left behind before he passed away two years ago, the one I had saved for a quiet moment of memory.
Griffin looked down at me, his eyes slightly bloodshot, a slow, greasy smile spreading across his face.
"Maren," he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. "You shouldn't be out in the cold. Isn't it a little early for you to be walking around after... well, whatever happened at the hospital?"
My throat felt like it was lined with glass. "Griffin. What did you do to the lock?"
"Oh, that?" He took a slow sip of the scotch, letting the ice clink against the crystal. "We had the security system updated yesterday. New keys, new codes. Dad thought it was best. Can't have people wandering in and out now that the estate is occupied."
"Occupied?" I repeated, the word tasting like copper. "I built this house, Griffin. My company holds the construction loan. I came to get the baby supplies from the guest cottage."
"Yeah, about the guest cottage," Griffin said, taking a half-step back and resting his hand on the door edge as if preparing to shut it. "Brooke and I checked it out. It’s a little tight for her wardrobe, so we decided to move into the main suite upstairs. Dad and Mom took the ground-floor wing. We’re using the guest cottage for overflow storage for the wedding gifts."
My breath hitched. The air in my lungs turned to ice. "What are you talking about?"
"Maren! Who is at the door?"
My mother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. A second later, Denise appeared behind Griffin. She was wearing a new silk cardigan, her hair freshly blown out, looking like a woman who had spent the morning relaxing in a spa rather than a mother whose daughter had nearly died in childbirth seventy-two hours ago.
When her eyes landed on me—and on the tiny bundle tucked inside my coat—she didn't rush forward. She didn't open her arms. Her face hardened into a mask of weary annoyance.
"Maren, please," Denise said, stepping into the foyer. "Don't start making a scene on the porch. The neighbors across the valley have telescopes, you know."
"You changed the locks," I said, my voice rising, shaking with a rage so hot it made my vision blur at the edges. "I was in the hospital for three days! I had a emergency C-section! You didn't answer my calls, you didn't come to the hospital, and you changed the locks on my property!"
My father, Leonard, walked into view behind them. He was holding a leather-bound folder—a folder I recognized immediately. It was the master project file from my desk in the guest house.
"It’s not your property anymore, Maren," Leonard said calmly, his tone flat, bureaucratic, and utterly devoid of warmth. "We filed the paperwork with the Buncombe County Register of Deeds yesterday afternoon."
I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it would wake the baby. "What paperwork?"
"The Quitclaim Deed," Leonard said, tapping the leather folder against his palm. "You signed it over to the Bellamy Family Heritage Trust last week during the final contractor walkthrough. Since I am the sole trustee of the family trust, and Griffin is the primary beneficiary, title has been legally transferred. The house belongs to Griffin now."
"I never signed a Quitclaim Deed!" I screamed, the sound tearing through the mountain air. Elodie stirred, beginning to cry—a small, sharp sound against the quiet woods. "I signed the Certificate of Occupancy and the subcontractor lien waivers! I never signed away my title!"
"Well, the notary stamp says otherwise," Leonard replied cold-eyed. "You were stressed, Maren. You were emotional and pregnant. You signed what was put in front of you. It’s done. Griffin needs the estate to establish his standing for Brooke’s family. They are high-society people from Charlotte. They need to see that he comes from land."
"He doesn't come from land!" I shouted, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes, hot and furious against my freezing cheeks. "He comes from thirty-nine years of failure! He hasn't held a job in four years! I paid for this dirt! I paid for the foundation! I paid for every nail, every tile, every tree in the yard!"
"And you have your company," Denise interjected sharply, stepping in front of my father. "You have your little real estate business, Maren. You can always build another house. Griffin can't. He’s a man. He has a family name to protect, and he is getting married in three weeks. How would it look if he was living in a rented apartment while his younger sister owned a mountain villa?"
"He doesn't deserve a closet in this house!"
Griffin took a step forward, his smug smile vanishing, replaced by the ugly, defensive sneer he had worn his entire life whenever he was challenged.
"Get off my porch, Maren," Griffin said quietly. "You’re trespassing on private property. If you don't leave right now, I’m calling the county sheriff. And trust me, nobody wants a scene where a hysterical new mother gets dragged off a luxury estate in handcuffs."
I looked at my brother. I looked at my mother, who turned her back and walked toward the kitchen. I looked at my father, who simply closed the oak door until there was only a three-inch gap between us.
"Your baby is crying," Leonard said through the crack. "Take her home, Maren. Stop being so selfish."
The door clicked shut.
May you like
The heavy chrome lock engaged with a sharp, final sound.
I stood on the stone porch as the afternoon shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains stretched across the yard, holding my newborn daughter in the freezing wind, completely locked out of the dream I had spent two years building.
