Chapter 3 - The Fortress of the Ashfords
The helicopter descent into the Westchester estate felt like dropping into a medieval fortress cloaked in modern luxury.
The Ashford estate—known locally as Blackwood Manor—sat on a jagged cliff overlooking the crashing grey waves of the Long Island Sound. Surrounded by three miles of wrought-iron fencing, dense pine forests, and private security checkpoints, the sprawling stone mansion looked less like a home and more like a stronghold designed to withstand a siege.
As soon as the chopper touched down on the private helipad, a team of men in dark suits stepped back, keeping a respectful distance while Titan bounded down the ramp first, his massive tail wagging as he shook off the rotor wash.
Penny refused to let go of Willa's hand during the entire walk from the landing pad to the massive iron-reinforced oak doors of the manor.
"She hasn't held anyone's hand outside of her nurse in three years," Mrs. Higgins whispered quietly as she walked beside Willa through the cavernous foyer. The entrance hall featured soaring vaulted ceilings, dark oak paneling, and an enormous stone fireplace that could easily roast an ox.
"Why me?" Willa whispered back, her eyes darting across the security cameras mounted in every corner. "I'm just a waitress. I dropped a tray of appetizers on my second day at Belladonna. I'm clumsy, I'm loud, and I have zero patience for rich people."
"Children and animals possess an instinct adults lose," Mrs. Higgins replied cryptically. "They smell truth. In a house built entirely on lies and blood, you smell like fresh air, Miss Hayes. Or perhaps... like something she desperately needs."
They were led up a grand winding staircase to the second floor, down a long corridor lined with priceless oil paintings of stern-looking men in nineteenth-century suits—ancestors of the Ashford empire.
Willa’s room wasn't a guest suite; it was a sanctuary. Decorated in calming shades of cream and sage green, it featured a massive four-poster bed, a private en-suite bathroom of Italian marble, and French doors leading out onto a stone balcony overlooking the crashing sea.
True to his word, Kendrick had ensured the door had a heavy brass lock on the inside.
"Dinner is served in the formal dining hall at eight," Mrs. Higgins said, setting a small leather-bound book on the bedside table. "Mr. Ashford expects your presence. Please... wear something from the wardrobe in the walk-in closet. There are dresses delivered from Fifth Avenue waiting for you."
"I don't play dress-up," Willa said flatly.
"In this house, Miss Hayes, clothing is armor," Mrs. Higgins replied with a knowing smile before quietly closing the door.
Left alone, Willa walked out onto the balcony, the salty wind whipping her brown-dyed hair across her face. She gripped the cold stone balustrade, her mind racing.
Blackwood Manor. The heart of the beast.
Six years ago, her father—Arthur Hayes, chief financial officer of Hayes Logistics—had discovered that his company was being used as a front for the Ashford Syndicate's international money laundering network. When her father threatened to go to federal prosecutors, his car's brake lines had been cut on a winding mountain road outside Albany. Her mother had died six months later of grief-induced heart failure.
Willa had spent the last six years scraping together fragments of evidence, learning to forge documents, changing her appearance, and waiting for an opening to destroy Kendrick Ashford from the inside out.
May you like
And now, fate had dropped her right into his master bedroom suite's neighbor.
Be careful, she reminded herself, pressing a hand against her chest where her silver pendant rested. One wrong move, and you're sleeping at the bottom of the Long Island Sound.
