The transition from a cramped, drafty apartment above a dry cleaner to the west wing of the Cole estate felt like stepping into another dimension.

Noa stood in her new bedroom—a spacious suite with vaulted ceilings, a king-sized bed draped in crisp white linen, and a private balcony overlooking the cliffside gardens—and unpacked her two battered cardboard boxes. It took less than ten minutes. Her entire worldly possessions fit into a fraction of the walk-in closet.

There was a soft knock at her door.

Before Noa could answer, the door pushed open an inch, and a small, dark head peered into the room. Lucia Cole was wearing an oversized gray hoodie that swallowed her frame, her wild hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She was holding a battered copy of The Secret Garden with the spine completely split down the middle.

“My dad says you live here now,” Lucia stated, her tone flat, defensive, and fiercely guarded.

Noa closed the empty cardboard box and turned around, leaning against the edge of the bed. She didn't rush toward the girl, didn't use a fake, high-pitched "nanny voice," and didn't smile too brightly.

“Your dad mentioned it, yes,” Noa replied calmly. “Apparently, I’m the new person assigned to survive your cooking demands and keep you from destroying expensive porcelain.”

Lucia’s eyes flicked up, scanning Noa’s face for mockery or fear. Finding neither, the girl stepped fully into the room, clutching the book tightly against her chest.

“I’m not going to talk to you,” Lucia warned, as if laying down the terms of a legal treaty. “I’m not going to do arts and crafts, I’m not going to eat Brussels sprouts, and if you try to make me wear a dress, I’ll bite you.”

“Good to know,” Noa nodded, walking over to her nightstand and picking up a pen. “That saves us a lot of time. No dresses, no green vegetables that look like tiny trees, and no forced conversation. Deal?”

Lucia stared at her, clearly thrown off balance by the lack of pushback. Every other adult who had ever walked through these doors had immediately tried to civilize her, discipline her, or smother her with patronizing sympathy.

“Deal,” Lucia muttered suspiciously. She turned on her heel and started to walk out, then paused at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “Your room is bigger than the last lady’s.”

“That’s because I pack lighter,” Noa smiled softly.

As Lucia slipped out and closed the door, Noa let out a long, shaky breath. Phase one was complete. But she knew the real storm wasn't coming from the eight-year-old girl down the hall; it was coming from the shadows outside the gates, where the men who wanted Gideon Cole dead were already watching his house for a new, vulnerable point of entry.