The Phantom Heiress: His Secret Obsession

The heavy door of the black Lincoln Town Car clicked open.

Corrie swung her long legs out, the thick rubber soles of her combat boots hitting the pristine white gravel of the driveway. The friction produced a sharp, crunching sound that echoed too loudly in the dead quiet of the estate.

She stood up, the biting wind of the Philadelphia suburbs immediately sinking into the thin fabric of her unbranded black jacket.

Davis, the estate butler, stood two feet away. His posture was rigidly straight, his chin tilted upward at an angle that screamed generational arrogance.

His eyes dropped. He stared at the frayed hems of her washed-out denim jeans. The muscles around his eyes twitched, a physical spasm of unfiltered disgust that he didn't even try to hide.

He extended a hand encased in a spotless white cotton glove. He reached for the battered, olive-green canvas bag resting on the leather backseat. He didn't grab the handle. He pinched the worn strap between his thumb and index finger, treating it like a dead rat he had been forced to dispose of.

Corrie's wrist flipped. The movement was a blur of muscle memory.

She snatched the strap right out from under his hovering fingers. The rough canvas scraped against her palm. She slung the heavy bag over her right shoulder, the weight of it settling against her collarbone.

She didn't say a word. She just stared at him, her face a mask of absolute, chilling stillness.

Davis froze for a fraction of a second. His chest puffed out as he recovered his composure.

"Welcome to the Warren Estate, Miss Corrie," he said. His voice carried a thick, practiced British accent that dripped with condescension. "I must kindly remind you to be mindful of your surroundings indoors. The artifacts and vases are quite fragile. And expensive."

Corrie ignored the warning. She turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the massive, three-story Gilded Age mansion looming in front of her.

The limestone facade was cold and imposing. It looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum built on dirty money.

A flicker of movement caught her peripheral vision.

She snapped her eyes to a massive floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor. A shadow was pressed against the glass. The second she looked up, the heavy velvet curtain jerked shut, swallowing the spy in darkness.

Corrie's jaw tightened. Her teeth ground together.

Davis stepped forward and pushed open the massive double oak doors.

A wave of suffocating heat rushed out to meet her, instantly making the sweat prickle at the back of her neck. The air was thick, heavy with the cloying, expensive scent of Bulgarian rose room diffusers. It coated the back of her throat like syrup.

Corrie stepped over the threshold. Her boots sank into the plush fibers of an authentic Persian rug.

She didn't try to walk softly. She brought her heels down hard, the heavy thuds of her boots deliberately shattering the museum-like silence of the grand