THE black SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of the Harlow residence, its engine purring softly before going quiet. The gates had barely finished sliding shut when the front door flew open.
Mrs. Harlow stood there, hands clasped tightly to her chest, eyes glistening as she stared down the walkway like she was afraid the image before her would vanish if she blinked.
The driver stepped out first, moved to the back, and opened the trunk.
Then Valentine appeared.
He had changed. He now looked taller, broader in the shoulders, his once-boyish face now sharpened by years and distance. But the moment his eyes landed on the woman standing at the door, everything else fell away.
“Mother,” he breathed.
That single word broke whatever composure Mrs. Harlow had been clinging to.
“Oh, my son,”
