“Miss Layla, the master sent me to bring you home.”
Dressed neatly in a tailored suit, Mr. Woodruff shoved open the hospital room door. His tone was cold, laced with impatience. “He said you’d better behave. Try running off to bother Mr. Grayson again, and he’ll ship you back to the countryside to feed the—” Pigs, almost, but he stopped.
The room was quiet and tidy, not the chaos he’d envisioned.
Layla had clearly been waiting. She sat with a book in hand, long hair tied back in a neat ponytail. Her frame was slim, legs crossed, and even in casual loose pants, the long, delicate lines of her legs stood out.
She looked up slightly at the sound, locking eyes with him.
Those were not the heavy, overdone eyes he remembered—the smoky makeup, the gaudy eyeliner. These eyes were bright, sharp, and startlingly clear.
Mr. Woodruff froze.
Was this really the same country bumpkin?
Layla closed her book with a soft “click,” her voice calm and distant. “No one taught you to knock before entering?”
Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight.
He hesitated, caught off guard, unsure what to say.
Before he could react, she stood, moving slowly, one leg clearly not right.
He frowned, a sneer flickering in his eyes.
Layla McCullen—clouded in title only. She was raised outside of the family, brought back just a year ago.
And since then, she’d been nothing but trouble, always competing with Fiona, the real McCullen daughter.
Just days ago, she had even tried to seduce Mr. Grayson—pathetically, and look where it got her.
Mr. Woodruff scoffed to himself, lifted his chin, and turned to walk out of the room first, snapping, “Since you can walk now, then hurry up. The master’s waiting.”
Layla didn’t respond. She stayed at her own pace as she picked up a small test tube from the table.
He didn’t notice, assumed she was just being difficult, irritation flickering in his eyes.
A wild, backwater stray—did she really believe she belonged with the McCullens?
…
Thirty minutes later, a black Maybach pulled away from the hospital, Layla seated in the back, calm as ever, headed straight for the McCullen estate.
Stepping out of the car, she tilted her head up, eyes on the mansion ahead.
The gates were shut. Not a soul to receive her.
She walked right in.
Afternoon sunlight slipped through the crack in the door, casting a golden slash across the stern face of the man sitting inside.
C City—one of the top-ranked cities in the country by GDP. Fast growth, booming commerce.
The McCullen family, thanks to Richard McCullen’s business, now stood among the city’s elites.
And he carried the look of power like he wore it daily.
Now, seated stiffly on the couch, his silence and furrowed brows screamed disapproval.
Almost enough to make her forget how cowardly he’d been all those years ago walking out on her and her mother.
Beside him, Grace Harmon whispered something soothing.
When Layla entered, Richard’s frown deepened into a sharp pattern between his brows.
“Kneel,” he snapped, his voice cold and tight. “I don’t care how—just fix things with the Graysons. Today.”