The Billionaire’s Broken Angel… and His Darkest Desire

The bruise on Maya's cheekbone had faded to a sickly yellow-green, but she still caught herself checking it in every reflective surface she passed. Three weeks since she'd walked out. Three weeks since she'd decided that surviving meant more than just breathing. The studio apartment in Brooklyn wasn't much—a Murphy bed that groaned when she pulled it down, a kitchen the size of a closet, bars on the windows—but it was hers. More importantly, it was three hundred miles away from him.

She pressed her fingers to the fading mark, feeling the ghost of pain beneath the surface. Some things healed on the outside faster than they did within.

The morning light filtered through the grimy window, painting stripes across the bare hardwood floor. Maya had been in New York for twenty-one days, and she still woke up at 5 AM with her heart hammering, convinced she'd heard his voice in the hallway. The therapist at the women's shelter had told her this was normal. That the hypervigilance would fade. That she was safe now.

Maya wasn't sure she believed in safety anymore.

She'd learned to survive by becoming invisible. By making herself smaller, quieter, more agreeable. By reading the subtle shifts in his mood like a meteorologist tracking an approaching storm. Those skills didn't translate well to normal life, she was discovering. Yesterday, at the diner where she'd just started waitressing, she'd apologized seven times during her four-hour shift. To customers who bumped into her. To the cook who forgot an order. To the manager who'd simply asked her to wipe down table six.

"You don't have to apologize for existing," the other waitress—Simone, with her box braids and knowing eyes—had told her during their break. "I can spot a runner from a mile away, honey. Take one to know one."

Maya had wanted to deny it, but the words had stuck in her throat. She was a runner. She'd run with nothing but a duffel bag, two hundred dollars in cash she'd been hiding in a tampon box for six months, and the clothes on her back. She'd run because staying meant dying, either all at once or piece by piece until there was nothing left of the woman she used to be.

The coffee maker gurgled its final protest, and Maya poured herself a cup in the one mug she owned—white ceramic with a chip on the rim. She'd bought it at the Goodwill for fifty cents, along with a mismatched set of plates and exactly three forks. She was building a life from scratch, one secondhand item at a time.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, and her entire body tensed.

Unknown number.

Her finger hovered over the decline button. It was probably nothing. A spam call. A wrong number. But her mind spiraled through the possibilities like shuffling a deck of worst-case scenarios. He'd found her. He'd somehow tracked her down despite her leaving her old phone behind, despite using cash for everything, despite not telling a single soul where she was going.

The buzzing stopped. Maya released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Then it immediately started again. Same unknown number.

Her hands trembled as she answered, pressing the phone to her ear without speaking.

"Maya Reeves?" A woman's voice, professional and brisk. Not him.

"Who's asking?" Maya's voice came out harder than she intended, a wall of defense she'd built brick by brick.

"My name is Caroline Westbrook. I'm an attorney with Westbrook and Associates. I'm calling regarding the estate of Eleanor Reeves."

The name hit her like a physical blow. "My grandmother?"

"Yes. I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms. Reeves. Your grandmother passed away two weeks ago. We've been trying to reach you—"

"Two weeks?" Maya's voice cracked. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold floor, coffee forgotten. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

There was a pause on the other end. "According to our records, you were listed as estranged. We had some difficulty locating you. Ms. Reeves, your grandmother left you something in her will. An estate in Moonlight Cove, Maine. A bed and breakfast called the Tidewater Inn."

The room tilted. Maya gripped the phone tighter. "That's impossible. My grandmother and I haven't spoken in ten years."

Not since Maya had chosen him over everyone who'd warned her. Not since she'd cut off every person who'd told her that love shouldn't leave bruises, that jealousy wasn't the same as passion, that isolation wasn't protection. Her grandmother had been the last one to try, and Maya had screamed at her to mind her own business.

That conversation had been the last time they'd spoken.

"Nevertheless," Caroline continued, "the property is yours. There are some conditions attached to the inheritance, which I'll need to discuss with you in person. Can you come to Maine?"

Maya looked around her tiny apartment—her first step toward a new life. She thought about the diner, about Simone's kindness, about the small, fragile sense of safety she'd started to build here in the anonymous sprawl of Brooklyn.

Then she thought about her grandmother. About summers spent in Maine before everything fell apart. About the smell of salt air and fresh-baked bread. About a woman who'd tried to save her and whom Maya had pushed away.

About the chance to inherit something other than trauma.

"What kind of conditions?" Maya asked.

"I'd prefer to discuss the details in person. But Ms. Reeves, I should warn you—your grandmother's will includes a clause that requires you to run the Tidewater Inn for a minimum of six months. If you abandon the property or fail to meet certain requirements, it will be sold, and the proceeds will go to charity."

Six months. In a place he would never think to look for her. In a town small enough that she'd see him coming if he did.

"I'll be there," Maya said. "When do you need me?"

"As soon as possible. The inn has been closed since your grandmother's passing, and there are... complications. I'll email you the address of my office. We can meet tomorrow if you can make it."

Maya ended the call and sat on the floor for a long moment, her coffee growing cold beside her.

A bed and breakfast in Maine. A grandmother who'd never stopped caring, even after ten years of silence. A chance to disappear into something new, something that wasn't just running but maybe—possibly—running toward something instead of just away.

She pulled herself up and walked to the window, looking out at the Brooklyn street already alive with morning traffic. Somewhere out there, she'd left behind a man who'd taught her that love was control. But somewhere else—in a small town in Maine—her grandmother had left her a lifeline.

Maya pressed her palm against the cold glass. She'd learned to survive by becoming small. Maybe it was time to learn how to live by becoming something more.

She grabbed her duffel bag and started to pack.

What she didn't know—what she couldn't possibly know—was that the Tidewater Inn came with more than just a building and a set of keys. It came with a town full of secrets, a handyman with eyes the color of a storm at sea, and a mystery that had been waiting ten years for her to come home and solve it.

Some inheritances come with more than you bargained for.

And some small towns don't let go of their ghosts.