Chapter 1 — A Quiet Life
James Mercer lived alone in a small, modest apartment on the edge of town. The walls were bare, save for a single faded photograph of his mother, Cynthia, smiling warmly at the camera. Eight months had passed since her death, and the silence of the apartment felt heavier than ever, pressing down on him like a weight he could not shake.
James had learned early in life that people could hurt you in ways you never saw coming. His father, William Mercer, had left him and his mother when James was barely ten. William had been a businessman—ambitious and charming to outsiders—but notorious in private for his love affairs and his indifference to family. He showed little regard for blood ties or the bond between father and son, leaving James and Cynthia to struggle through life on their own.
The last time James had seen his father, he was twelve. Since then, William existed only as a distant presence—occasional phone calls, business rumours, fleeting encounters that left no warmth behind. When his mother passed away, James had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that William might at least attend her small, simple funeral at the church she had loved. But he hadn't.
Not a single step inside the church.
All he had offered was a brief apology over the phone.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
No presence. No sympathy. No gesture.
James had known it would be like this. He knew where his father lived but rarely visited and felt no desire to return. William had shown repeatedly that wealth and indulgence mattered more to him than family ever did.
James led a quiet, simple life. His lean, slightly muscular frame moved with practiced ease through the halls of the local college where he taught biology. Standing nearly six feet tall, he carried himself with calm confidence, though his deep-set brown eyes held a quiet weariness shaped by long disappointment. A sharp jawline and faint stubble gave him an air of rugged composure. Beneath it, he remained guarded, careful to protect the fragile peace he had built.
He avoided relationships. After witnessing his parents' fractured marriage, he distrusted attachment. His evenings were often solitary reading, preparing lectures, or wandering aimlessly through empty streets. Occasionally, he sought distraction in bars or strip clubs far from his neighbourhood, places where no one knew him. Casual encounters. No ties. No expectations. Yet even those fleeting moments rarely brought satisfaction.
One rainy evening, as he returned from the local café with a lukewarm cup of coffee, an envelope lay waiting in his mailbox. The embossed insignia of a solicitor's office caught his attention. He frowned. He hadn't expected correspondence—certainly nothing important.
Inside his apartment, he opened it carefully. A single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper slid free.
"Mr. James Mercer,
We regret to inform you that your father, William Mercer, passed away one week ago. His demise was peaceful, and he left a legally binding will. According to his wishes, you are the primary beneficiary of his estate, which includes property and cash totaling nine million pounds. A woman by the name of Clara Holden, who cohabited with him in his later years, has also submitted a formal claim to a portion of the estate. Should you elect to dispute or contest her claim, the matter will necessarily proceed to formal legal review and litigation in accordance with probate law. Please contact our office at your earliest convenience."
James blinked.
His father—dead? Just a week ago?
The news struck him not with sharp grief, but with a dull, disorienting force, like a thunderclap heard from far away. Shock came first, then disbelief, followed by a strange heaviness in his chest. He had not mourned William while he was alive—not in the way sons were expected to mourn fathers.
Death changed things.
With it came finality. No more unanswered calls. No possibility—however remote—of reconciliation. A door that had always remained slightly ajar was now sealed forever.
What settled in his chest was not sorrow alone, but a hollow emptiness.
His mother was gone.
Now his father too.
James sank into a chair, gripping the letter. Nine million pounds—and a claim from Clara Holden, a woman he had never met. Wealth, something that had never mattered to him, had suddenly forced itself into the centre of his life. Even in death, William Mercer's influence reached out to him.
The next morning, James walked through the college halls with practiced composure. Still, a subtle tension clung to him. He noticed things he usually ignored—whispers of students, flickers of movement—that unsettled him.
Amanda, a twenty-seven-year-old lab assistant, approached quietly. Petite, with a slim, delicate frame and graceful movements, she carried herself with natural ease. Her long dark hair fell in soft waves, framing big, light-blue eyes filled with warmth and curiosity.
James noticed her immediately.
Her presence was comforting—yet unsettling. The gentle sway of her movements and the softness of her gaze stirred something long dormant inside him.
"Good morning, sir," she said.
"Morning, Amanda," he replied, steady despite a faint tremor he barely recognized. As he returned to his work, her image lingered.
The day passed with James struggling to focus. Clara Holden already felt like a shadow stretching into his life. Something about the legal language, the formality, and her name left a chill behind.
Amanda moved through the lab, assisting students, occasionally glancing in his direction. Every subtle gesture—the brush of her hand passing him a paper, the care she gave the equipment—made his pulse quicken.
She's beautiful, he admitted quietly.
And there's something comforting about her.
That evening, James returned home. The city streets glistened after the rain. He poured himself tea and stared out the window.
His thoughts drifted to his mother—simple, humble, strong. Her absence left a hollow space that neither wealth nor distraction could ever fill.
Yet Amanda's presence had awakened something unexpected. A warmth. A longing. A fragile hope for connection.
Across town, Clara Holden moved with quiet deliberation.
At forty-three, she was tall and lean, her figure shaped by discipline rather than softness. Long legs, narrow hips, posture rigid with control. She dressed carefully, favoring fitted clothing in muted tones.
Her features were sharp—high cheekbones, defined lips, cool, assessing eyes that missed very little.
William Mercer had fascinated her once. Wealthy. Confident. Used to indulgence. She had stayed when others drifted away, managed his household, watched his health decline, and listened to his complaints about age, business, and a distant son.
She had assumed loyalty would be rewarded.
It hadn't been.
The will had been clean. Clinical. And the money—fifty thousand pounds.
The number burned.
James Mercer, the absent son, had inherited everything.
William had underestimated her.
She would not make the same mistake.
As James lay in bed, sleep refused to come. Thoughts of inheritance, Amanda's light-blue eyes, and Clara's looming presence crowded his mind. Shadows stretched longer. Silence grew heavier.
The photograph of his mother stared back at him.
And someone is watching… he thought, closing his eyes with a quiet shiver.