She'd lived in Boston for five years—earned her master's degree, started a career in historic preservation, built a life that existed far beyond Mystic Falls. Then her grandmother died. And suddenly she owned one of the oldest estates in Virginia. Most people would've sold it. She couldn't. Not yet.

She wandered into the library, sunlight spilling through leaded-glass windows onto towering shelves of leather-bound books. Her fingertips drifted over spines older than the country itself. There was history here. Family. Questions.

A knock echoed through the house.

She frowned. No one knew she'd arrived. By the time she reached the front door, another knock sounded—measured, patient.

She opened it.

Standing on the porch was a man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Dark hair. Impeccable posture. Eyes that carried centuries of composure.