Novels by Ann Lottimore

Morning arrived the way hospitals prefer it — orderly, fluorescent before it was golden. The corridor lights brightened by degrees, the night monitors handed off their pens, and the soft wheels of the vitals cart resumed their half-hour pilgrimage from door to door. Through the thin, pale blinds of Observation 7, daylight gathered itself into a sheet and laid it across the floor.Lucia slept on her back, the blanket a neat line under her arms, the pulse-ox clip blinking its tiny red heart at the tip of her finger. The monitor read it in calm numbers: oxygen 99, heart rate in the high eighties, respirations even, blood pressure a narrow, sensible bookend to the night. Siena, who had not closed her eyes so much as taught them how to rest while open, sat where she had sat for hours, one hand on the blanket at Lucia’s shoulder, the plastic parent band warmed to her skin.A nurse slipped in first, wristwatch set five minutes fast the way some people bait time. “Good morning,” she said in a

They transferred Lucia upstairs when the sun was still a rumor at the edge of the city. The elevator doors opened onto a quieter floor, the kind built for waiting rather than crisis — low voices, long corridors, daylight that would arrive slowly and take the edge off metal and glass. Observation Room 7 was small, rectangular, and cleared of everything that could make a mother feel in the way. A narrow bed. A recliner that pretended to be comfortable. A monitor mounted high, its screen already alive with thin lines and numbers. A rolling pole with a saline bag hung but capped — ready if needed, unnecessary if luck held. Lucia lay on her back, blanket tucked under her arms, a tiny adhesive band across the crook of her elbow where the cannula sat like a promise not yet called in. The pulse-ox clip glowed red against her finger, a little jewel that pulsed with each artifact of the heart’s work. The blow-by nozzle had been removed; the mask coiled at the base of the pole like a snake out

The hour before dawn makes every room honest. Color drains to ash; sound thins to a thread. The safe apartment breathed in long, even measures — vents whispering, pipes settling, the city outside reduced to a pulse behind glass.Siena had stopped pretending not to sleep. Somewhere between three and four she’d let her body fold into the chair by Lucia’s bed, a throw blanket slid haphazardly over her knees, her head tilted against the high back. She kept one hand free, palm resting on the mattress, two fingers lightly touching the edge of Lucia’s blanket where the rise and fall would tell her more than any clock. The bandage over her palm tugged when she flexed; it itched the way healing does when it decides to, not when you ask.Lucia lay on her side facing her, hair looped into soft curls against the pillow, breath a quiet tide. A line of stuffed animals kept sentinel at the foot of the bed — fox, rabbit, a soft bear whose ear had been loved thin. The nightlight in the corner had surr

Night settled over the safe apartment like a heavy curtain, muting the city to a distant murmur. The lamps were turned low — one pool of amber on the sideboard, another a thin halo over the corner of the living room where Siena sat with her legs tucked under her, a blanket thrown across her knees as if warmth could argue with dread.The place was engineered for quiet. The HVAC hummed at a regulated whisper. In the corridor outside, guards rotated in soft-soled shoes that never quite made a sound. Somewhere below, the elevator locks cycled, checking and rechecking their own certainty. The windows, double-laminated and polarized, showed nothing of Milan except a suggestion of light, like the city had been reduced to a pulse.On the coffee table lay the black card with the golden serpent and, beside it, the photograph from the morning’s package. Siena had left them there deliberately, a boundary line in plain view. She refused to keep them out of sight. She also refused to touch them aga

The apartment didn’t feel safe anymore. It felt measured.Siena sat on the edge of the low sofa in the living room, elbows on her knees, the photograph from the black package balanced between her fingers like a blade. Lucia’s small face stared back up at her from the glossy paper — lashes lowered, mouth parted in concentration over a children’s book. The closer she looked, the more the image refused to stay still; it kept pulling her inward to the single fact she could not make smaller: someone had been that close.The room breathed around her in slow, careful sounds — the distant hum of the building’s ventilation, the soft tick of the wall clock, footsteps muted in the corridor where the guards rotated posts every fifteen minutes. From down the hall came the low murmur of two voices — Marco briefing another man; the rustle of a tablet case being unzipped; the scrape of a chair as someone sat. Efficient noise. Loyal noise. None of it changed the picture in her hands.Adriano stood at

Morning in Milan arrived like a careful intruder — slipping through the blinds in narrow shafts of pale gold, brushing across the dark oak floors of Adriano’s safe apartment without disturbing the silence. The air inside was still, untouched, holding onto the faint scent of last night’s rain.Beyond the reinforced windows, the city was waking up. A tram’s low rumble passed somewhere in the distance. Car horns flared and died away. Somewhere down on the street, the metallic clink of a shopkeeper rolling open his shutters carried faintly upward.Inside, the building was locked down as always — guards posted in the corridor outside, two more at the main entrance, cameras running in a continuous loop. This was Adriano’s stronghold in Milan, a place built for shadows and safety.From the bedroom, Siena stirred. Her eyes opened to the muted light pressing through the curtains, the sound of Lucia’s laughter filtering in from the next room — a soft, high melody, the kind only a child could ma

The hallway outside the conference room still buzzed faintly with the echoes of footsteps, murmured speculation, the scrape of leather folders being carried away. But inside Sebastian’s temporary office, the silence was almost heavy.Katherine sank into one of the chairs near the desk, her tablet still in her hands though she hadn’t looked at the screen since leaving the meeting. Her shoulders were tense, her jaw tight, her pulse still out of rhythm. The adrenaline had drained out of her, leaving her hollow, as if Halworth’s eyes were still on her even though the room was empty.Sebastian closed the door behind them with a soft click. Not the polite nudge of a handle, but a deliberate push, sealing them off from the building and its noise. He didn’t speak right away. He simply studied her — the faint pallor of her face, the way her hand trembled as she tried to set the tablet down, the way she pressed her lips together to stop them from quivering.Finally, he moved across the room and

The conference room was too cold, both in temperature and in tone. The Halworth delegation sat in a neat row along the polished table, their suits immaculate, expressions carefully neutral. Not one smile. Not one trace of warmth. Their briefcases rested at their feet like silent weapons, their notepads open, pens poised as if ready to strike. The air itself felt clinical, heavy with the unspoken fact that Halworth had the leverage, and they knew it. At the head of the table, Sebastian Mason was the only figure who looked entirely unbothered. His jacket was buttoned, his posture precise, his tone measured as he began. “Gentlemen, ladies. Welcome to Los Angeles,” he said evenly, his voice filling the room with the kind of authority that left little room for argument. “I trust your flight was smooth.” A murmur of acknowledgments followed — clipped, formal. The senior partner from Halworth, a silver-haired man with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, gave the faintest incline of hi

The morning sun spilled through the glass walls of Mason Equity’s temporary offices, throwing long stripes of light across the floor. Katherine stepped in, heels clicking a little too sharply against the polished surface, her bag tucked tightly under one arm. She had rehearsed her expression all the way here: neutral, focused, untouchable. The kind of face that told people she had not, in fact, nearly been caught kissing her CEO against the door of her office less than twenty-four hours ago.It lasted about thirty seconds.Sebastian was already there, leaning casually against the corner of her desk, flipping through the morning’s reports as though he had been waiting all along. Perfectly composed, cufflinks in place, shirt collar crisp, not a single trace of the chaos from yesterday clung to him. He looked like he had slept eight uninterrupted hours and woken up immune to scandal.Katherine dropped her bag a little harder than necessary onto the desk. “If Sophie tells anyone —”He did

The morning sun had just begun to slant through the tall glass walls of the office floor when Katherine pushed open her door, balancing her coffee in one hand and scrolling absently through her phone with the other. She was already running through the day’s agenda in her head — client calls, a board update, that endless supply chain briefing she wasn’t looking forward to — when she finally looked up.And stopped.Sebastian Mason was in her chair.Not across from her desk in one of the visitor seats. Not standing casually at the window. He was behind her desk, leaning back with the relaxed arrogance of someone who had already claimed the territory as his own. Her laptop was open, his papers spread across her blotter, and a Montblanc pen tapped lazily against the edge of her notebook — her notebook.Katherine blinked once, set her coffee down a little too sharply, and arched a brow. “Excuse me?”Sebastian didn’t immediately look up. He finished a line in his notes, then glanced at her o

The rooftop had fallen into that rare kind of silence — not empty, not heavy, but warm, steady. Katherine stood against the railing, wrapped in his jacket, her body melting into the solid line of his chest behind her. His lips had just brushed her temple, the faintest kiss, enough to unravel the last knot of tension she had carried all day.For a moment she thought that was it — the quiet ending to a long, bruising day. But then he didn’t move away. His mouth lingered against her skin, the warmth of his breath soft against the shell of her ear.Sebastian shifted, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path from her temple down the curve of her cheek. The touch was unhurried but filled with intent, a steady pressure that left her breath catching. When he found the corner of her jaw, the kiss lingered, heavier now, and something in the air shifted.Her lungs betrayed her, pulling in sharp, uneven breaths. She turned in his arms, her eyes finding his in the dim rooftop light. For one suspen

The elevator doors slid open with a low chime, spilling them into the still-silent top floor.The space was nothing like the polished Mason Equity offices she knew — no sleek conference tables, no glass partitions, no polished chrome nameplates. Just bare concrete underfoot, the faint echo of their steps, and walls still stripped down to white primer. Morning light streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the open expanse with gold, catching in the dust that hung in the air like glitter.Katherine took it in slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of her navy dress, her heels clicking against the floor. “Feels… unfinished,” she said with a little smirk.“Because it is.” Sebastian stepped out behind her, the click of his shoes more deliberate. He was in a dark charcoal suit with no tie, sleeves rolled just enough to give him an edge of informality — the only sign that this wasn’t a boardroom visit. In one hand, he carried a sleek leather folder, the kind she’d seen during h