Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Gate
Bella’s blood ran colder than the Kentucky winter air.
She grabbed both boys by their elbows, pushing them gently but firmly behind her skirts into the doorway of the cottage. “Noah, Leo, go inside. Close the screen door and stay in the kitchen until I tell you to come out.”
“Mama?” Leo whimpered, sensing the sudden, sharp spike of panic in her posture.
“Inside. Now.”
The boys scurried into the house, the screen door snapping shut behind them.
Bella smoothed down her plain navy cardigan, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped off the porch. She walked toward the driveway with her head held high, though her legs felt like lead.
Lucas didn't wait for her to reach the gate. He pushed away from the car and met her halfway across the gravel path.
Four years had changed him. The dark hair at his temples was streaked with silver, and the lines around his eyes were deeper, carved by years of endless, paranoid vigilance. But the air around him remained unchanged—he carried the absolute, suffocating authority of a man who owned the land he walked on.
He stopped five feet away from her. His storm-gray eyes swept over her face, her worn cardigan, her bare wedding finger, and finally settled on her eyes.
“Bella Kovalchuk,” he said. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that brought back every ghost she had buried in Chicago.
“Mr. Dracott,” Bella replied, keeping her tone flat. “You’re trespassing on private agricultural property.”
A ghost of a cold smile touched his jaw. “I bought this farm twenty minutes ago, Bella. The Miller family has been paid three times market value. The land is mine. You are on my property.”
Bella’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Why are you here? It’s been four years. I paid my mother’s bill. I never asked you for another dime. I never spoke a word to anyone.”
Lucas stepped closer. Up close, he smelled of cold rain and expensive leather.
“Three weeks ago, an old estate file from the Thornbury Hotel was flagged during a routine audit of my holdings,” Lucas said softly. “A room charge paid via terminal. $49,200. I remembered the night. I remembered the woman.”
He took another step, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face.
“I hired private investigators to track where that money went,” Lucas continued. “I thought you were a corporate spy. I thought you were working for the Moretti family or my uncle’s old rivals. But then my men sent me photos of this farm.”
He looked past her shoulder toward the small white cottage.
The screen door creaked open an inch. Two small, identical faces with messy dark curls peeked out through the wire mesh.
Lucas stopped breathing.
His entire body went rigid. The cold, impenetrable composure that had protected him for thirty-seven years cracked wide open in a single fraction of a second.
“They... they have my eyes,” Lucas whispered, his voice suddenly sounding fragile, stripped of all power.
“They are my sons,” Bella snapped, stepping directly into his line of sight to block the boys from his view. “They have nothing to do with you or your world!”
“How old are they?” Lucas demanded, his voice rising, a sudden, desperate edge cutting through his tone. “How old are they, Bella?”
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“They are four,” she said fiercely. “And they are safe here. They don't know who you are. They don't know what you do. Leave us alone, Lucas. Please.”
Lucas didn't listen. He pushed past her, taking long, heavy strides toward the cottage porch.
