To steal my unborn baby, my mother-in-law cornered me with a forged notice of my husband’s death. “You have no one left to protect you,” she sneered, forcing custody papers into my hand. But as I backed away, the front door burst open, and a voice she never expected to hear shouted…

own ankles when I married Captain Arthur Vance.

Arthur was a good man born into a rotting dynasty. The Vance Manor, a sprawling, suffocating antebellum estate on the periphery of Savannah, Georgia, was a monument to old money and older sins. The air inside those mahogany-paneled walls always felt a few degrees colder than the humid marshlands outside.continue reading …