Page 1 of Hero's Heart

Chapter 1

Sloane Miller ascended the stone steps of the Getty mansion, her breath fogging in the frigid evening air. She’d finally made it home, despite the storm.

Homebeing a very loose term.

The plastic bags she carried weighed heavily in her hands, their sharp edges cutting into her palms. Her gloves, worn thin from years of use, offered little protection against the cold. She adjusted the weight of the bags, biting her lip to suppress a groan that was half frustration, half exhaustion.

Each step toward the sprawling Seattle house felt like a battle—one she knew she couldn’t avoid.

The storm clouds gathering on the horizon mirrored her mood, their dark shadows stretching over the lawns that had been manicured to within an inch of their lives. She paused at the top step, her mom’s voice echoing in her mind:Even when the storm clouds gather, angel, there’s always a way to find the light.

The thought brought a fleeting smile to Sloane’s lips, though it did little to warm the chill in her chest. She cast one last glancebehind her, as though she might spot an escape route through the iron gates sitting just past the unnaturally tidy lawn.

God, how her free spirit of a mother would’ve hated this place. Would’ve said it had no life whatsoever, despite its size and grandeur. Ironic that the very woman who would’ve been the first person to tell Sloane to leave was the reason she couldn’t.

Squaring her shoulders, hands too full to knock, she kicked at the heavy oak door.

The sound reverberated through the entryway, and within seconds, the door creaked open, revealing Nathan’s perpetually disapproving face. The butler’s thin lips twisted into a frown as his eyes scanned her from head to toe.

“Miss Miller.” His tone dripped with disdain. “Must you always announce yourself so…uncouthly?”

“Wouldn’t need to announce myself in any way if I were given a key to my own residence.” The bags of skin care products, gourmet truffles, and dry cleaning swung at her sides as she walked.

Nathan didn’t respond to her comment. She hadn’t expected him to. But his gaze followed her as though her very presence sullied the pristine marble floors.

“You’ve tracked water inside,” he called after her, his tone sharper now. “I hope you’re planning to come back and clean this up.”

Far be it for the butler to do any actual butlering, but she didn’t say anything. She’d been made aware unequivocally that Nathan worked for the family.

And Sloane wasn’t family. At least, not in any way that counted.

“I’ll take this,” Nathan continued, removing the dry cleaning bag from her grasp. “And dinner is ready.”

“Let me get the rest of this stuff put away.” Her boots echoed in the cavernous hallway, each step a reminder of how out of place she was in this house. The grand oil paintings lining the walls, the crystal chandeliers, the ornate rugs—they all whispered the same thing:You don’t belong here.

She carefully placed the half dozen bags filled with nonessentials—things that could have easily waited until after the storm—just inside Marissa’s bedroom door, arranging them neatly. With a sigh, Sloane pulled the door firmly shut behind her. If she left it open even a crack, she’d hear about it.

She rushed to grab the mop from the back laundry room and wipe up the water she’d tracked in, ignoring the growling of her stomach that reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There was no use getting annoyed at Nathan for not doing something that was arguably his job and that he would do for anyone else in the house—other staff included. Sloane was better off saving her energy for bigger battles.

She put the mop away then made her way to the dining room, pausing outside the double doors, taking a steadying breath. The sound of clinking glasses and low murmurs drifted through the crack. She pushed the doors open, bracing herself for the frosty reception she knew awaited her.

William Getty, her father, sat at the head of the long table, a crystal tumbler of scotch already in hand. Clarice, her immaculately dressed stepmother, occupied the chair to his right, her pearls gleaming under the chandelier’s glow. Marissa, Sloane’s half sister, lounged beside her, scrolling through her phone with a bored expression.

Three place settings.

Sloane’s stomach twisted at the sight. The exclusion wasn’t an oversight. It never was.

“Evening,” she said, her voice carefully neutral as she stepped into the room.

Clarice glanced at her, the corners of her mouth curling into a faint sneer. “You’re late,” she said, her tone as sharp as the diamond earrings dangling from her ears.

Sloane set her jaw. “It’s been storming all day,” she replied evenly, grabbing the plate of lukewarm food waiting on the console table, moving toward the unoccupied end of the dining table. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

“Excuses,” her father said without looking up from his plate.

Correction:Williamsaid without looking up from his plate. William Getty didn’t think of himself as her father at all. The one time she’d slipped up and called him “Father” out loud to his face had gotten her backhanded.

Marissa finally glanced up from her phone, her perfectly arched brows furrowing. “Did you pick up my dresses?”

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