My name is Raven Vale, and at nineteen years old, I had already become a ghost in my own life.
Mom died three weeks ago in a car accident that left nothing but twisted metal and silence. The funeral was a blur of black dresses and empty condolences. Now, I stood in the massive foyer of Blackwood Manor, wearing the same tight black dress I’d worn to bury her. It clung to my curves like a second skin, the fabric slightly damp from nervous sweat.
I had nowhere else to go.
No grandparents. No close relatives who wanted the burden of a grieving, penniless teenager. Just him.
Elias Blackwood.
My stepfather.
He was standing at the top of the grand staircase like a king surveying his domain — tall, broad-shouldered, devastatingly handsome at forty-two. Sharp jawline, piercing steel-gray eyes
