Chapter two: The weight of wet leather

The Rolls-Royce carved through the rain, a beast of a car cutting the night in half. Water streaked the blacked-out windows, looking like tears Sienna wouldn’t let fall. She sat stiff, spine like a steel rod, the folded letter from Dorian clenched in her fist till her knuckles ached. You’re not safe. Neither is he.

Find the truth before they do. The lines scratched at her brain, a puzzle she didn’t want, a trap she couldn’t shake. Across from her, Vivienne gazed out at the city’s smeared lights, her perfect nails clicking a slow beat on the armrest—tap, tap, tap—like she was counting down to something. Roman sat next to Sienna, too damn still, like a coiled snake sizing up its next bite.

“Where are we hauling ass to?” Sienna finally barked, her voice hacking through the heavy quiet.

She wasn’t some doll they could drag wherever they pleased.

Vivienne didn’t bother looking at her. “The estate,” she said, crisp and cold, like she was spitting out a fact everybody should know. “Your father’s. Yours too, now, I guess. Half of it.”

“The estate,” Sienna repeated, a laugh ripping out of her, harsh and crooked. “That ugly pile of glass on the cliffs? The one he threw up while Mom was hacking up her life in that shitty trailer?” She leaned in, daring Vivienne to twitch. “I’d burn it down before I’d call it mine.”

“You’d be burning your share,” Roman said, his voice deep and even, like he was trying to talk her off a roof. She swung her head around, locking onto those gray eyes—hard, steady, not giving an inch. “Walk away if you want, but you’re tossing it all to me.”

Her teeth ground together. “I don’t want your dirty cash.”

“It’s not mine yet,” he fired back, quick and sure.

“It’s ours. And if we don’t sort this mess, it’s gone for good.”

“Sort what?” She shook the letter hard, paper crackling like dry leaves. “This crap? Some dead guy’s ramblings? I didn’t ask for his riddles.”

Vivienne let out a sigh, soft and prissy, the kind that made Sienna want to smash something. “You got roped in the second you were his kid. Like it or not, you’re stuck with it.”

The car veered onto a twisty road, city glow fading as cliffs jutted up ahead, black and ragged against the storm. Sienna’s gut twisted—not from the ride, but from the weight crashing down. She’d spent years dodging Dorian’s long shadow, pouring her rage into paintings nobody bought, swearing she’d never touch his filth. Now it was grabbing her by the throat.

The estate loomed into sight, all sharp stone and gleaming windows, squatting over the sea like it owned the damn waves. Lights flickered inside, smug and warm, laughing at the rain. The car jerked to a stop, and Roman hopped out first, popping the door open like he was some knight in a wet coat. Sienna shoved past him, skipping the umbrella he held out, letting the downpour soak her jacket. She needed the cold, the sting—something to ground her.

The foyer hit her like a slap—shiny marble, a chandelier spitting crystals, stairs curling up to places she didn’t give a damn about. It stank of Dorian, all frost and flash, a king’s cave. Vivienne glided in behind, peeling off her coat to show a black dress that clung tight, like she’d been poured into it. Roman hung back by the door, watching Sienna with that steady stare that made her want to punch him.

“Home sweet home,” Vivienne said, her smile thin and cutting. “Lawyers come tomorrow for the will.

Pick a room till then. Plenty to go around.”

“I’m not crashing here,” Sienna said, spinning for the exit, but Roman stepped up, blocking her without laying a hand—just there, big and unmovable.

“You should,” he said. “Those enemies your dad wrote about? They’re not sitting on their hands.”

She glared up at him, water dripping off her hair, puddling on the floor. “You know something, huh? About this—” she jabbed the letter at him—“about them.”

His jaw tightened, just a flicker, a chip in his cool. “I know enough to keep you breathing. For now.”

“Quit with the vague garbage!” she yelled, ramming past him, her shoulder smacking his chest. He didn’t shift, but she felt him—warm, solid, coiled tight. It lit her fuse hotter. She charged for the stairs, craving air, an exit, anything, but Vivienne’s voice stopped her dead halfway up.

“One more thing,” Vivienne called, her tone sharpening, less frost, more bite. Sienna turned, hand squeezing the banister. Vivienne dangled a little silver key, letting it swing like a lure. “Dorian left this with the letter. Opens something here. Something he said you can’t do without.”

Sienna’s breath hitched. A key. Another piece of his stupid game. She wanted to tell them to shove it, but her boots were already stomping back down, pulled like a sucker to a flame. She snatched the key from Vivienne’s fingers, its cold heft settling heavy in her hand.

“What’s it unlock?” she growled.

Vivienne shrugged, smooth and maddening.

“Wouldn’t say. But he was scared stiff when he handed it over. Called it your only shot.”

Sienna’s eyes flicked to Roman. He was staring at the key now, his mask slipping, something shadowy crossing his face—maybe he knew it, maybe it spooked him. She opened her mouth to dig in, but a loud crack ripped through the air.

Glass broke somewhere deep in the house, the noise bouncing off the walls like a warning shot.

Roman’s hand clamped her arm fast, yanking her back. “Down,” he hissed, all edge now. Footsteps thumped closer—too many, too quick—and Sienna’s heart slammed into her chest as dark shapes flickered in the hall.