April POV:

The sudden, shrill ring of the doorbell sliced through the heavy silence of the cabin.

A jolt. Heart leaping into my throat.

The first thought was Donovan. Maybe he'd finally come out of his room. Maybe he was ready to talk, to explain. A tiny, foolish flicker of hope ignited in my chest.

But his door stayed shut.

A walk to the front door, anger from earlier already dissolving into a familiar, pathetic ache of longing.

A peer through the peephole.

It wasn't Donovan.

Standing on the porch was an older woman. She had a mane of elegant silver hair swept into a perfect chignon, and she was wearing a cream-colored Chanel suit that probably cost more than this entire cabin. Behind her, a stern-looking woman in a severe black dress stood holding several large, expensive-looking shopping bags.

Parked in the driveway, right behind Donovan's dusty Ford pickup, was a gleaming black Bentley. The contrast was so absurd it was almost comical.

No idea who they were. A knot of caution tightened in my stomach. No move to open the door.

The woman on the porch didn't press the bell again. She simply waited, a small, patient smile on her face. Then, as if she knew I was watching, she leaned closer to the peephole and gave a playful wink.

The unexpected, mischievous gesture disarmed me slightly. A hesitation, hand hovering over the lock.

Suddenly, the door to Donovan's bedroom was thrown open.

He emerged fast—too fast—He stopped when he saw me standing by the door. He frowned, then pushed me aside and walked over, brushing against me without a trace of apology.

He put his eyes close to the cat's eyes.

Every ounce of color drained from his face. The alarm hardened into pure, unadulterated shock, and beneath it—unmistakable this time—a wave of something that looked terrifyingly like dread.

"Shit." Barely a whisper. A word I'd never heard him use before.

He turned to look at me, and the expression in his eyes was so raw, so completely unguarded, that it stole my breath. No ice. No walls. Just a desperate, silent plea, like a man watching the ground crack open beneath his feet.

The look was so startling, a half-step back was all I could manage.

His eyes squeezed shut for a beat. A deep breath dragged through his lungs. The shoulders squared—not in anger, but like a soldier bracing for a blow. Then the door was pulled open.

The elegant woman's smile widened. "Donovan, my dear boy! Is that any way to greet your grandmother?"

Grandmother?

My brain short-circuited. This regal, intimidating woman who looked like she'd just stepped out of a magazine was Donovan's grandmother? The man who lived in a shack and drove a beat-up truck?

Donovan just stood there. The tips of his ears had gone red—a detail so unexpected, so utterly boyish, that for a moment I forgot to be confused. He shifted his weight, blocking the doorway more out of instinct than intention. "Grandmother." His voice came out strangled. "What are you doing here?"

"Genevieve," she corrected him, her voice light but firm. A graceful sidestep, and she glided into the living room as if he were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Her eyes, a paler, wiser version of Donovan's ice-blue, immediately found me.

A quick, assessing sweep from head to toe. But there was no judgment in her gaze, only a warm, genuine curiosity.

"Oh, dear. You must be April." Her voice flowed like warm honey. A hand extended, wrist adorned with a simple, elegant diamond bracelet. "I'm Genevieve Blackwood. Donovan's grandmother."

My hand was taken automatically. Hers was warm and surprisingly strong. "Hello, Mrs. Blackwood."

A gentle squeeze. "Please, call me Genevieve. You're even lovelier in person than you are in the photos."

Photos?

A confused look shot toward Donovan. His face had gone from pale to a dark, thunderous shade of red. The expression on his face said he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

The woman in black, Martha, was already directing two men who had appeared out of nowhere to start unloading a mountain of expensive-looking luggage from the Bentley.

A muscle jumped at the corner of Donovan's jaw. He looked like a man watching his carefully stacked house of cards begin to wobble. "Grandmother." Lower now, strained. "What is this? We talked about this..."

"Did we?" Genevieve's long lashes blinked with feigned innocence. "Oh, that's right. You said you wanted to handle it yourself. And I can see you're doing a fine job of it. You've handled my granddaughter-in-law to the point of tears."

A pointed gesture toward my face. My hand subconsciously touched my cheek, realizing the eyes were still red and puffy from this morning.

Embarrassment made me look down. Donovan opened his mouth, then closed it. No words. Just that muscle in his jaw, working silently.

A critical eye surveyed the small, rustic cabin. Then a wide, satisfied smile spread across Genevieve's face.

"I've decided." The announcement rang through the room with cheerful authority. "I'm going to stay here for a while. It's the perfect opportunity to get to know my new granddaughter."

She beamed at me.

The sound Donovan made was somewhere between a groan and a laugh—the hollow, defeated noise of a man who knew he'd already lost.

The matriarch had arrived. And his carefully constructed, miserable little world was about to be turned completely upside down.