My parents sold everything to rescue my golden-child brother from a massive debt. Then, during a Level 5 blizzard, they crashed a van into the gates of my remote mountain resort. “We’re your parents. We’re moving in,” Dad demanded. He thought my life’s work was his “collateral.” He threatened to ruin my business if I didn’t help pay off the ruthless men hunting my brother. When I secretly opened the manila folder they brought, I realized they had brought something far more dangerous to my door.

. I saw a sanctuary. Most importantly, I saw a place far, far away from the people who shared my DNA.I had named it The Obsidian Abbey, and tomorrow was its rebirth. Tomorrow morning, a fleet of helicopters was scheduled to land on the newly paved helipad down the ridge, bringing with them a consortium of angel investors, elite travel critics, and the editors of two major architectural magazines. Tomorrow was the day my five years of sleeping on air mattresses in sub-zero temperatures, of bleeding bank accounts dry, of sanding century-old oak beams until my knuckles bled, would finally pay off. The Abbey was no longer a ruin; it was a world-class boutique resort, an exclusive retreat for those who wanted to disappear into luxury.