Sunlight, thick with dust motes, sliced through the single window of Kian’s apartment.
Audrey woke slowly, tangled in sheets that smelled like him. For a disoriented second, she didn’t know where she was. All she knew was the solid warmth of the man sleeping beside her, his arm slung possessively over her waist, his breathing a steady, reassuring rhythm against her back.
Safe. The word echoed in her mind.
Then memory crashed down. Cole. The condo. The ultrasound picture. The suffocating weight of her life.
She slipped out of Kian’s hold, her movements careful, quiet. She gathered her discarded clothes from the floor. He didn’t stir. In sleep, the hard lines of his face were softer, his expression peaceful. It was a dangerous thing to see. It made her want things she couldn’t have.
Dressed, she stood by the door, her hand on the knob. She should just leave. Disappear back into the lie she’d run from.
“Audrey.”
His voice was a low rasp of sleep. She turned. He had pushed himself up on one elbow, the sheet pooled around his waist. His hair was a mess, his eyes heavy-lidded, but his gaze was sharp, focused entirely on her.
“Don’t run,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I have to go back,” she whispered. “He’ll…”
“I know.” He cut her off, sparing her from having to explain the monster she lived with. He swung his legs out of bed, completely unselfconscious in his nakedness, and walked to the small kitchen. “Coffee first.”
He moved with an easy, efficient grace, scooping grounds into a filter, filling the pot with water. It was such a simple, domestic act. It felt more intimate than anything they had done the night before.
While the coffee brewed, he pulled on a pair of worn jeans. He didn’t press her with questions. He just made two mugs of coffee, black, and handed one to her.
“Thank you,” she said, her hands warming around the ceramic.
“You have a choice,” he said, leaning against the counter, watching her. “You don’t have to go back there.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted, the lie tasting bitter in her mouth. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it?” He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving hers. “Or is it simple, and you’re just scared?”
His words hit their mark. She was terrified. Of Cole. Of being alone. Of the life growing inside her. Of the powerful, magnetic pull of the man standing in front of her.
She finished her coffee in silence and placed the empty mug in the sink. “I have to go.”
He walked her to the door. He didn’t try to kiss her. He just put a hand on her arm, his thumb stroking her skin. The simple touch sent a shiver through her.
“My number,” he said. “You still have it.”
It was a statement. A lifeline.
She nodded, unable to speak, and fled.
The condo was silent when she let herself in. Too silent.
Cole was sitting in one of the stark white armchairs in the living room, a mug of coffee untouched on the table beside him. He was staring at the blank television screen. He didn’t look at her when she walked in.
“I was worried,” he said. His voice was flat. Devoid of emotion. It was the scariest sound in the world.
“I’m sorry. I just needed space.”
He finally turned his head, his eyes cold and assessing. “You left your phone. I called the hospitals, Audrey.”
The guilt was a physical blow. “Cole, I just went for a walk. I lost track of time.”
“A walk. All night.” He stood up, slow and deliberate. He walked toward her, his movements predatory. He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He smelled her hair.
She flinched.
“You smell like coffee,” he said, his voice a low, threatening murmur. “And the outside. Where did you go?”
“A 24-hour diner. I just sat there. I needed to think.” The lie came easily. Too easily.
He stared at her for a long, agonizing moment, searching her face for the truth. She held his gaze, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Then, his expression shifted. The cold anger was replaced by that familiar, suffocating concern. He cupped her face in his hands.
“Okay,” he said, his voice softening. “Okay, honey. I believe you. But you can’t do that to me again. To us. You’re carrying my child. Your safety is my only priority. You have to see that.”
He was forgiving her. Granting her pardon. And it felt worse than if he had screamed.
“I have to get to work,” she said, pulling away.
“Of course,” he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Have a good day. I’ll see you tonight.”
She escaped to the museum. Her sanctuary. The one place that was truly hers.
But the moment she walked through the soaring marble atrium, she knew something was wrong. The air was thick with tension. Her assistant, Clara, gave her a look that was pure pity.
“Mr. Davies needs to see you,” Clara whispered, her eyes wide. “Immediately.”
A cold dread washed over Audrey. Mr. Davies was the museum director, a formal, hands-off man she rarely interacted with directly.
His office was on the top floor, an intimidating space of dark wood and old money. He was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“Audrey. We have a problem,” he said, turning to face her. His expression was grim. “A serious one.”
He gestured to a single sheet of paper lying in the center of his massive mahogany desk. “An anonymous complaint was emailed to the entire board of directors late last night.”
Her stomach plummeted. “A complaint? About what?”
“About you.”
She walked to the desk and picked up the paper. It was a typed letter. No signature. The words were clinical, professional, and absolutely devastating.
It accused her of gross negligence. Of mismanaging and improperly handling several key artifacts for the upcoming gala exhibit. It claimed she had a reckless disregard for museum protocol, putting priceless historical items at risk.
“This is a lie,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “This is a complete and utter lie.”
“The complaint is specific, Audrey,” Mr. Davies said, his tone heavy. “It mentions the manifest for the Iberian galleon collection. It claims you falsified acquisition records to cover up damage to a 17th-century astrolabe.”
The blood drained from her face. The astrolabe. It was the centerpiece of the exhibit. A piece she had personally overseen. There was no damage. The records were pristine. But the accusation alone was a death sentence to her reputation.
“Who sent this?” she demanded.
“As I said, it was anonymous,” he replied coolly. “But it was sent from a secure server. Untraceable. The board is taking it very seriously. They’ve scheduled an emergency review. Until then, they’ve asked that you… limit your direct handling of the exhibit artifacts.”
The room tilted. He was putting her on probation. Banning her from her own work. From her own life.
“You can’t possibly believe this,” she pleaded.
“What I believe is irrelevant,” he said, his face a mask of regret. “What matters is what the board believes. And right now, they have a very detailed letter that says our head curator is a liability. Prove them wrong, Audrey. Please.”
She stumbled out of his office in a daze. Back in her own office, a small, cluttered space filled with books and maps, she sank into her chair.
She read the letter again. The language was precise, using industry jargon that sounded authentic. This wasn’t a casual slander. This was a professional assassination.
Her mind raced. Who would do this? A rival curator? An enemy she didn’t know she had?
And then, a single phrase jumped out at her.
…damage to a 17th-century astrolabe, believed to have occurred during its transport from a private collection in Lisbon.
Her breath caught in her throat. Only a handful of people knew the details of that acquisition. It had been complex, fraught with customs issues. Cole had been the one to help her. He’d used one of his “financial contacts” at the port to smooth things over. He’d seen the paperwork. He knew every detail.
It’s a good thing you have me to protect our interests.
His words from the day before echoed in her ears. He hadn’t been warning her.
He had been threatening her.
She stared at the poison pen letter in her hands. This was his move. His checkmate. Pin her down at work, make her feel incompetent and helpless, so she would have to turn to him. So she would have no choice but to rely on him.
The walls of her office suddenly felt like they were closing in. The cage wasn’t just the condo anymore. It was her whole life.
Her hand trembled as she pulled her phone from her bag. She found the number from the crumpled receipt.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
He was a complication she couldn’t afford. A secret that could destroy everything. Calling him was insane.
He was also the only person who had ever made her feel strong.
She pressed the call button.