Chapter 1 

Cam

The air in the conference room is stale with the scent of lukewarm coffee and quiet desperation. Not my desperation. Theirs. I lean back in my leather chair, the motion slow and deliberate, and let the silence stretch. Across the polished mahogany table, three men from Sterling-Price fidget, their cheap suits suddenly looking a size too big. The head guy, a balding man named Henderson, clears his throat for the third time in as many minutes.

Logic dictates that the first person to speak now, loses. So I wait.

I let my gaze drift to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the downtown skyline. A perfect, cloudless Tuesday. A perfect day to crush a competitor. I tap a single, perfectly manicured nail—a deep, glossy bordeaux—against the table’s edge. Once. Twice. The sound is a small, sharp counterpoint to the frantic thrumming of Henderson’s heart, which I can practically hear from here.

“Camelia,” he finally says, his voice strained. “We feel our offer is more than fair. The cross-promotional metrics alone—”

“The metrics are speculative, Bill,” I cut in, my tone smooth as silk but with an edge of steel I’ve spent a decade sharpening. “Your projections are based on a Q2 growth model that failed to account for the Techna launch. Your user engagement is down seven percent. My numbers, on the other hand, are based on verified Q3 data.” I slide a tablet across the table. On its screen is a single, brutal graph showing their decline against our meteoric rise. “I’m not selling you a fantasy. I’m selling you a life raft.”

His face goes pale. The two younger suits flanking him look like they want to crawl under the table. I give them a slow, deliberate smile. It’s not a friendly one.

“We can’t go higher than a twelve percent stake,” he mutters, defeated.

“I didn’t ask you to,” I reply, leaning forward. “I’m not negotiating equity. I’m dictating terms. You need our platform to survive the holiday quarter. You’ll give us the exclusive distribution rights for your new product line, and in return, we won’t actively bury you. That’s the deal.”

Silence. I watch the calculation in his eyes, the war between pride and survival. Survival wins. It always does.

“Fine,” he grits out.

I stand, extending a hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Bill.”

His handshake is limp, sweaty. I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my tailored blazer as I walk out, my heels clicking a sharp, victorious rhythm on the marble floor. My assistant, a bright young woman named Chloe, falls into step beside me, her eyes wide with awe.

“That was incredible, Ms. Jordan.”

“That was Tuesday, Chloe,” I say, handing her the tablet. “Draw up the preliminary contracts. I want them on Henderson’s desk before he’s had time to fully process the shellacking he just took. And get me a car. I’m heading out for the day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Back in my corner office, I shrug out of my blazer. The space is my sanctuary—clean lines, black and white photography on the walls, a single, elegant orchid on my desk. Everything in its place. Everything under my control. I glance at my phone. A text from Harper lights up the screen.

Harp: Bring your Auntie Cam A-game. Ivy has painted a ‘masterpiece’ on the dog and Gideon is threatening to hose them both down in the yard. SOS.

A real smile, the kind I reserve for a select few, touches my lips. I type back a quick reply.

Me: On my way. Tell G to stand down. I’ll bring wine for the adults and a non-toxic solvent for the dog.

An hour later, I’m pulling up to the Rourke residence. It’s a beautiful, sprawling home nestled in a quiet, wooded suburb—a world away from my sleek downtown apartment. The moment I step out of the car, I’m hit by the happy chaos that is my best friend’s life. The sound of kids shrieking with laughter, the distant bark of their golden retriever, Atlas, and the low, rumbling laugh of Gideon’s voice.

Harper throws the door open before I can knock. She’s wearing yoga pants and a paint-smeared sweatshirt, her glorious curls piled into a messy bun. She looks radiant and exhausted, and she pulls me into a fierce hug that smells like baby powder and home.

“Thank God you’re here,” she breathes into my shoulder. “He’s about to use the dish soap.”

“Not on my watch,” I say, stepping inside and handing her the bottle of expensive Cabernet I brought.

The living room is a beautiful disaster zone. Toys are scattered across a plush rug, and in the center of it all is Ivy, Harper’s six-year-old, looking immensely proud of the abstract streaks of blue and green paint adorning a very patient Atlas. Gideon, a mountain of a man who still looks like he could snap a tree in half, is standing with his arms crossed, a look of amused exasperation on his face. He’s holding their one-year-old son, who is currently trying to eat his father’s shirt.

“Auntie Cam!” Ivy screeches, launching herself at my legs.

I laugh, scooping her up into a hug. “Hey, Picasso. I see you’ve entered your Blue Period.”

“Daddy says Atlas looks like a sad blueberry,” she giggles.

“Daddy is very wise,” I say, winking at Gideon. He gives me a warm, welcoming nod, the stern lines of his face softening the way they only do for his family.

“Good to see you, Cam,” he rumbles. “Talk some sense into your friend before I have to call a groomer.”

“Relax, big guy,” I say, setting Ivy down. “It’s non-toxic, water-based paint. It’ll come out.” I walk over and scratch Atlas behind his paint-caked ears. “Besides, I think it gives him character.”

Harper rolls her eyes, uncorking the wine. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m never helping,” I grin. “That’s why you love me.”

We spend the next couple of hours in a whirlwind of domestic bliss that feels like watching a foreign film. I help Harper clean up the dog, we drink wine while the kids splash in the tub, and I listen to them talk about their life. It’s a life filled with a beautiful, messy, all-consuming love.

“So,” Harper says, topping off my glass as we sit on the back porch, watching Gideon push the kids on the swing set. “Any prospects on the horizon? Or are you still married to your job?”

I take a slow sip of my wine. It’s the same question, different day. “My job is a very fulfilling partner, thank you. It’s reliable, it challenges me, and it never leaves its socks on the floor.”

She gives me a look, the one that says I see right through you. “Cam, you deserve to have this,” she says softly, gesturing to the scene in front of us. “A partner. A family. You’d be an amazing mom.”

My chest tightens. “I’m an amazing aunt,” I correct gently. “That’s enough for me. I have you guys. I have my career. My life is full.”

“Full isn’t the same as fulfilled,” she murmurs.

“Logic dictates that a person can be perfectly fulfilled without a romantic partner,” I say, falling back on my favorite defense. “I’m happy for you, Harp. Truly. You and Gideon are disgustingly perfect. But that’s your fairytale, not mine.”

She sighs, knowing she’s hit a wall. “Okay. I’ll drop it. For now.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of the kids’ laughter filling the air. I love these moments. I love this family. But as I watch Gideon lift his son into the air, the baby’s delighted squeals echoing in the twilight, a familiar, hollow ache settles in my chest. I ignore it, taking another sip of wine. I have everything I need. Everything I can control.

It’s late when I get back to my apartment. The silence is a strong contrast to the happy noise of Harper’s house. Here, everything is pristine. White walls, minimalist furniture, not a single thing out of place. I pour myself a glass of water, kick off my heels, and sink into my sofa, the quiet wrapping around me like a blanket.

I love this. The peace. The order.

My phone rings, the sound jarring in the stillness. It’s an unknown number, a local area code. Probably a wrong number. I let it go to voicemail. It rings again, insistent. With a sigh, I answer, my professional voice clicking into place.

“Camelia Jordan.”

“Ms. Jordan?” The voice on the other end is male, hesitant, heavy with an official sort of gravity. “This is Officer Miller with the State Highway Patrol.”

My stomach clenches. “Yes?”

“Ma’am, I’m calling about an accident on Route 17. A vehicle registered to an Elena and Mark Dubois.”

The world tilts. My sister’s name hangs in the air, a sharp, metallic taste filling my mouth. “My sister,” I whisper, my throat suddenly tight. “Is she… are they okay?”

There’s a pause, the kind that precedes an earthquake. The kind that splits your life into a before and an after.

“Ma’am,” the officer says, his voice thick with practiced sympathy. “They’re gone, the husband and wife.”

No.

The word is a silent scream in my head. The glass of water slips from my numb fingers, shattering on the polished hardwood floor. I don’t feel the splash. I don’t feel anything. My perfect, controlled world has just been obliterated.

“Ma’am?” the officer continues, his voice tinny and distant. “There’s something else. The vehicle’s manifest shows there was an infant in the car. A six-month-old. We… we have the child here. She’s unharmed.” He pauses again. “The hospital found emergency contact information. You’re listed as the legal guardian, Ms. Jordan. For Maya.”

Maya.

My niece.

My sister is gone. And her baby… her baby is mine.

I slide down the wall, my legs giving out from under me, and land hard on the floor amidst the shattered glass and spreading puddle of water. I don’t register the sting. All I can hear is the frantic, terrified beating of my own heart, a wild drumbeat in the sudden, deafening silence of my life.