Rich Baby Daddy Issues

Chapter 1

Selah

It’s the kind of cold that bites through wool.

I step out of the car, boots sinking into the soft gravel like it’s trying to swallow me whole. My breath clouds in front of my face, the air sharp enough to catch in my throat. Scotland in winter—it’s like stepping into the moody pages of a Brontë novel, only with fewer corsets and more jet lag.

The car pulls off behind me, its engine hum swallowed by the wind. Silence rolls in like fog. And there it is—Mooring Manor.

It’s more fortress than house. Slate gray stone, turrets that slice the sky, and a front door that looks like it might creak out a warning all on its own. Ivy crawls up one side of the house like it's trying to reclaim it. There’s no welcome here. No light in the windows, no warmth leaking from the seams. Just grandeur and ghost stories stitched into every stone.

I rub my hands together, then curse softly when I remember I left my gloves on the plane. Of course I did.

“You made it,” comes a voice from behind me. Crisp. Female. Unamused.

I turn to find a woman standing at the top of the front steps like she’s been waiting to see if I’d pass inspection. Early sixties, severe bun, tartan scarf pulled high. Her gaze flicks over me like she’s measuring flaws.

“Miss Brooks,” she says.

“Selah,” I offer, trying not to sound like I’m shivering. “And you must be Mrs. Bramhall.”

Her lips twitch, but it doesn’t become a smile. “You’ll want to come in, then. Storm’s not far off.”

I climb the steps, pulling my suitcase behind me. She doesn’t offer help, and I don’t expect it. Inside, the air shifts from bitter to just bone-deep cool. The manor is cavernous—ceilings so high they echo, dark wood paneling, a chandelier that looks like it’s older than the Declaration of Independence.

And yet… there’s art. Everywhere. Sculptures half-tucked into alcoves, oil paintings so richly detailed I want to cry. The air smells of wood polish and old paper. I set my bag down gently, like I’m afraid the floorboards will scold me.

“I’ve placed you in the East Wing,” Mrs. Bramhall says, already walking briskly. I scramble to catch up, suitcase wheels stuttering across the rugs.

“East Wing?”

“Formerly the music quarters. Lord Gregor said you’d appreciate the light.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know Gregor well enough to think he’d remember what kind of light I prefer to paint in.

I follow her down a long corridor, my fingers brushing against the textured wallpaper. Every inch of this place whispers wealth—the old, inherited kind. The kind I’ve only ever seen from a distance.

“How long were you with Lord Thorne?” she asks, and the way she says with makes it sound like an accusation.

“I curated three of his private collections,” I say carefully. “Met him in London. He invited me here once. Just for a weekend.”

“Hm.” That’s all she gives me.

We reach a door, and she pushes it open without ceremony. The room is big—no, massive. A fireplace sits dormant on one end, and tall windows overlook a field of frostbitten moor. A chaise lounge sits near a wall of bookshelves, and in the corner, an easel waits like it’s been expecting me.

My heart flutters.

“He had this brought up last week,” Mrs. Bramhall says, noticing. “Said you’d want something familiar.”

I don’t know what to say to that, either.

She leaves without another word, her footsteps swallowed by thick carpet. I stand there for a moment, letting it settle over me—the stillness, the space, the silence. I breathe it in. Then I walk to the window and stare out.

The Scottish moors stretch endlessly, a low gray sea of wild grass and mist. Somewhere out there is Gregor Thorne’s grave, and maybe Elena’s too. And Isobel. The girl in the photographs, always half-smiling, always half-fading. I never met her, but I know the way grief folds itself into canvas. I’ve painted it enough to recognize the shape.

“Quite the view.”

The voice cuts through the quiet, deep and distinctly annoyed. I whirl around.

He’s standing in the doorway, coat still on, scarf loose around his neck like he couldn’t be bothered to untie it. Tall. Pale. Eyes the color of cold steel. He leans against the doorframe like this is his house and I’m the squatter—which, to be fair, I kind of am.

“Lord Thorne,” I say.

His jaw ticks. “Ash is fine.”

“Right.” I force a smile. “Ash. Didn’t think you’d be here this early.”

He steps into the room like he’s daring the floor to reject him. “And yet, here we both are.”

His accent is clean and clipped, expensive. The kind that makes my Southern vowels feel like they showed up without an invitation. He walks to the fireplace and leans on the mantel, facing me without really looking at me.

“So,” he says, “you’ve arrived to claim your piece.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“This manor. The collection. The inheritance.” His eyes flick up, finally meeting mine. “Or were you under some delusion that you were here because of sentiment?”

Heat flares in my chest. “Gregor invited me here, yes. But I didn’t ask to be in his will.”

“No,” he says slowly, “but you didn’t decline either.”

There’s a sharp silence. I take a step forward, folding my arms.

“You think I came here for money?”

“I think,” he says, straightening to full height, “that my uncle had a penchant for dramatics. And dragging strangers into his family’s business from beyond the grave? Very on brand.”

“I’m not a stranger,” I snap.

“You’re not family.”

We stare at each other across the room. The wind howls against the windowpanes, but neither of us looks away. I see the light in his eyes, the twitch of his jaw. He’s grieving. He’s angry. He’s terrified, probably—but none of that excuses the sneer in his voice or the judgment in his stare.

“I’m not here to take anything from you,” I say, voice low. “Whatever Gregor left, it was his choice.”

He scoffs. “And I’m sure you had no influence over that.”

I move closer to him. “Careful. That almost sounded like you’re calling me a gold-digger.”

His eyes narrow. “Should I be?”

I laugh, bitter. “Wow. You’re charming. No wonder your uncle never invited you back.”

The words land like a slap. His face hardens.

“You don’t know anything about this family,” he says, voice ice. “Or what it’s cost.”

I should stop. I should walk away. But I don’t.

“Then maybe you should’ve stayed in London and let someone else tend the ghosts.”

He says nothing. Just stares at me like I’m a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. And then he turns and walks out, boots echoing down the hall.

Welcome to Mooring Manor, Selah.

The ghosts are alive—and one of them’s still breathing.