Chapter 1

Chapter One

Raffa

I glance out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, watching the early morning sun paint the city skyline in gold. It's been an hour since I arrived, and while my employees are just trickling in, I'm already on a phone call with Mr. Murphy—my worst client, and quite possibly the human embodiment of a migraine.

This guy is like getting a paper cut on a Monday morning—just unnecessary and painful. If firing clients wasn't terrible for business, he'd have been out the door yesterday. But I've spent years building my legal practice on professionalism and patience. Well, mostly professionalism.

"If we don't get this resolved quickly, it's going to turn into a very messy trial," I say, keeping my tone steady even though I can feel my blood pressure creeping up. "And trust me, Mr. Murphy, you do not want that. It'll drag your reputation through the mud, not to mention your business." And probably mine too, I don't add because he certainly wouldn't give two fucks about my firm or my employees.

He's a selfish bastard, I know this because I have a father just like him.

"You're my attorney, McFolley," he snaps, like I'm some lackey who messed up his lunch order. "I pay you to do as I say, and it's your fucking job to fix this."

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth might crack. My fingers grip the phone tighter as I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. As satisfying as it'd be to tell him to fuck off, I'm not about to burn years of hard work over this clown.

"I'm doing everything I can, Mr. Murphy. But you need to stop getting yourself into these fucked-up situations." Dealing with this client is threatening my patience. It is literally hanging by a thread, and I can feel it fraying fast.

There's a dramatic sigh on the other end that makes me want to chuck my phone out the window. My gaze drifts back to the skyline, but the ache in my chest isn't just frustration anymore. It's a full-on, breath-stealing vice grip. I rub at it absentmindedly, hoping it's nothing. Probably heartburn from something I ate yesterday.

"Well, I didn't know you being my attorney gave you the right to boss me around," Murphy bites out, like some petulant child who didn't get his way.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Listen, if you want to keep being a fucking idiot, that's your choice. But you're gonna need another attorney for that shit." The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, but honestly? I'm done playing nice.

I hang up, but the second I do, the pain in my chest ratchets up to a ten. It feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to my ribs. My left arm goes numb, and the phone slips out of my hand, clattering to the floor. I try to take a deep breath, but it's like my lungs won't expand. My vision blurs around the edges, black spots dancing in the corners.

"Janine. Janine," I gasp, calling my secretary or at least I think I do. "Call nine-one-one."

The pain surges, white-hot and relentless, shooting down my arm. I clutch the edge of the desk, but my legs give out, and I collapse to the floor with a thud. My office chair rolls away as I hit the carpet, the world spinning. Janine's voice is a distant echo, muffled and far away, like she's shouting at me from the other side of a tunnel.

Everything starts to fade, my vision narrowing into nothing but darkness. And then . . . nothing.

Suddenly, I'm seven, sitting at the kitchen table with my siblings, waiting for the grand moment to show our dad our latest art projects from school.

My knee bounces under the table as I glance at the door for the hundredth time. I need mine to be his favorite—this time, at least. When we finally hear the sound of the front door, it's a scramble. Every kid for themselves.

And let's face it, he's probably going to make a beeline for the baby. Everyone loves her, the cute little show-off. Don't get me wrong, she's adorable and all, but she's so . . . boring.

"Dad, look what I made in art today," I blurt out, practically shoving my 3D model of an office building under his nose. "Just like yours, Dad."

He smiles, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and I know—deep down, I know—he's faking it. I can see the same lackluster enthusiasm he offers my siblings when they take their turns.

"Dad, why don't you ever pay attention to what we do?" I blurt, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His scowl is immediate, shutting me down like I just committed a crime.

And then—beep, beep, beep. A sharp sound breaks through the fog, dragging me from the memory. My brows furrow as my eyes flutter open. Harsh fluorescent lights sting, and I squint against the brightness, trying to figure out where the hell I am. My body feels like it's made of lead, every movement sluggish. My chest is tight, sore, and my throat feels like sandpaper. It's then that I realize—I'm in a hospital bed.

I blink a few times, trying to clear my vision, and spot my younger sister, Louanne, sitting beside me in a chair, her face etched with worry.

"Lou?" I croak, my voice barely there.

"Thank God, you scared us half to death," she says softly, leaning forward, her hand gently squeezing mine. "How are you feeling?"

"What happened? Where am I?" I glance down at the stiff, sterile sheets and the monitor next to me. "Okay, clearly I'm in a hospital . . . but how did I get here? I was on the phone with a client, and the next thing I know—bam—I'm on the floor in pain."

Lou shifts closer, her fingers tightening around mine, and I notice the concern in her eyes, making my stomach twist. Something bad happened.

"From what the doctors said, you had a mild heart attack," she says carefully, watching my reaction. "Your assistant called Sinclair, who's in Spain with Lavender. He called Paul, and we flew in to check on you. The doctor should be in soon to explain more."

She's talking fast, dumping too much information on me all at once. I blink, trying to process. Thank God it's just Lou here. If all four of my siblings were crowding me, I'd probably lose it.

But one thing stands out like a glaring neon sign. "I had a heart attack?" I rasp, my throat dry and scratchy. "I'm barely forty. That shouldn't happen. I need . . . water."

She gets up, grabbing the cup from the table and helps me sip water through a straw, just as the doctor walks in. He's smiling—actually smiling—and I can't help but think, if my health were really that bad, there's no way this guy would look so cheerful. Maybe I'm not completely screwed.

"Well, it's nice to see you awake, Mr. McFolley," the doctor says in a voice that's a little too chipper for my taste. "It seems the stress in your life, along with some genetics, led to you suffering a mild heart attack. Now, while it could've been worse, you'll need to take several weeks off work to rest your body and let your heart heal."

Weeks off? I grunt under my breath, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Right. Because sitting around doing nothing is exactly what my career needs right now.

The doctor continues, oblivious to my inner grumbling. "We'll assess how your recovery is going. After that, we'll want to see some lifestyle changes to ensure that you live a long, happy and healthy life. We'll keep an eye on everything to ensure there's no scarring or issues with how your heart pumps in the future. But for now, things are looking good."

I blink, trying to absorb the amount of information. A few weeks off work? My mind scrambles. That's impossible. I've got cases piling up, deadlines breathing down my neck, and no one on my team is equipped to handle half of what I do. My heart might have been under pressure, but now my brain's feeling the squeeze.

I look over at Lou, eyes wide with panic. How the hell am I supposed to just . . . stop?

"I can't just take time off. No one else can handle my caseload," I mutter, staring down at my hands like the answer might be there if I look hard enough.

"Raffa, you have to. If you don't, we could lose you," Lou says, her voice filled with that kind of sisterly desperation that makes me squirm. She's staring right into my eyes, silently pleading with me to cooperate.

I know she's right. But giving up control—even for a little while—of something I've built with my own blood, sweat, and in spite of my father and his expectations? It feels like handing over my soul. My brain's too fuzzy from the meds to come up with a decent plan, and that frustrates me even more.

"Are our parents here?" I ask, trying to shift the focus away from my impending loss of control.

Lou glances away, avoiding my eyes. Yep, I know that look. It's the same one the nanny gave us when our parents didn't show up for school plays or soccer games.

"You know how they are," she says softly. "Paul and McKay are in the cafeteria. Sinclair's flying in tomorrow. And Barnaby is . . . well, you know how he is. But we're all ready to take you home."

Home? I groan, rubbing a hand over my face in frustration. I live in Boston, she doesn't. I wish the hospital, my assistant or whoever contacted my family, hadn't done so.My siblings mean well, but now they're going to try to drag me to fucking Kentbury, where most of them have relocated like it's some magical town. Even Sinclair lives there half a year. They think I'll fall in love with the place and settle down. Spoiler alert: I won't.

"Look . . . I think it's best if you head home soon," I grunt, my grumpy tone slipping through. "Don't your kids need you?"

Lou gives me that stern, exasperated look only a mother—or a sister—can pull off. "Henrik's with the kids in Kentbury," she replies and before I get a chance to tell her that maybe she should go home because I can't imagine taking care of three kids—especially the six-month-old baby—alone is easy, she adds, "Grandma Genie's helping him. We're here for you, Raffa."

"Honestly, I don't need you. I'm fine," I insist, waving her off, but I can feel the cracks forming in my argument.

She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry. Of course you're doing fine. Your cholesterol levels are fine, your heart just missed a beat or two . . . oh, that's right, you chose to have a relaxing visit in the hospital, why not just head back to the office right now."

"You don't need to be sarcastic," I growl at her.

"Listen, you're coming with us to Kentbury. It's not optional." She uses her best mom voice. "If you can't take care of your own health, we will do it for you until you learn to prioritize yourself. You come first before everything else, work included."

Before I can say anything, my phone rings from the table next to the hospital bed. Saved by the bell. Sort of.

"Hello, Paul," I say as I answer, grateful for the distraction.

"You're alive," he exclaims, half-joking. "I'm outside your room. McKay and Lou don't think we should all cram in there, but I wanted you to know we're here for you—and ready to take you with us to Kentbury."

His voice is full of concern, and it tugs at my chest. I know they care and believe they know what's best for me. It's just . . . Kentbury is too fucking far from work.

They've been begging me to visit, but it's a slippery slope. I've seen it with Sin, Lou and even Paul. You visit for the maple syrup and end up staying forever because someone steals your heart. Not that I have one though. My track record with women has shown me that I suck when it comes to love.

"Listen, I'm totally fine, better than the guys down in the morgue," I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

"It's not funny, Raffa," Paul says, sighing into the phone. "We don't want to lose you."

I clear my throat, feeling slightly guilty. "Sorry, Paul. Just trying to keep things light. This day hasn't gone as planned."

"I get it and I'm sorry that you ended up in the hospital," he says, softer now. "Have you talked to the doctor yet?"

"Yeah it was a mild heart attack. Apparently, I need a few weeks of rest and to stay away from the office." I try to sound indifferent, but the disappointment bleeds through.

"See, sounds like the perfect time to visit Kentbury, hey?" Paul says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.

"You're fucking kidding, right?" I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You don't get it. I need to be close in case something happens at the firm. I can't just drop everything and move to Vermont for a few weeks of syrup and ‘rest.' What if there's an emergency at work?"

Paul, as always, doesn't back down. "You just said the doctor doesn't want you going in, so what's the difference? Come on, Brother, you need rest, and Kentbury's got plenty of that. Plus, you'll get to finally meet Grandma Genie and hang out with us again."

"I'll be fine here, Paul," I mutter, still grumpy as ever. "But I appreciate you checking in." My voice is flat, and I'm hoping he'll drop it. "I'm going to get some rest. I'll see you when they release me."

I end the call before he can say anything else, leaning back into the pillows with a frustrated sigh. I run my hand over my face, and turn to face Lou with her quirked eyebrow, implying that I have no choice but to go. I know he means well—they all do—but the idea of leaving the city for Kentbury? I can't even picture it. Sure, they're happy there, but I've worked too hard to build my life here.