Audrey locked the door to Kian’s apartment, the click of the deadbolt echoing the finality of her choice. She was on her own now, at least for the day. He had left a spare key on the counter with a hastily scrawled note: Don’t let them win. I’ll call.
She walked down the wooden stairs and into the morning glare, feeling exposed. Kian’s world, his small apartment over the water, had felt like a fortress. Her world, the one of glass-walled boardrooms and silent, judgmental patrons, felt like a minefield.
She took a cab, the city a blur of indifferent motion outside the window. Her mind raced. This isn’t about money. It’s about leverage. Kian’s words. Who were they? How could he know their methods so well? A cold knot of unease tightened in her gut, separate from the terror of her career imploding. It was a darker, more personal fear about the man she had just given herself to.
The cab dropped her two blocks from the museum. The grand limestone facade loomed at the end of the street like a courthouse awaiting a verdict. She had an hour until the meeting. An hour until her execution.
She needed armor. Or at least caffeine.
There was a small, chic coffee shop on the corner, one she rarely went to. It was too expensive, too precious. But today, she needed something strong.
She pushed open the heavy glass door. The air smelled of burnt sugar and roasted beans. It was quiet, a calm oasis before the storm. She ordered a black coffee, her hands trembling slightly as she handed over her credit card.
While she waited, she stared at her reflection in the polished chrome of the espresso machine. She looked pale, haunted. She saw the faint shadow of a bruise on her wrist where Cole had grabbed her. A mark of ownership she was desperate to erase.
“Audrey?”
The barista called her name. She turned to grab her cup just as a woman, elegant and poised in a cashmere coat, pivoted away from the counter, her own cup in hand.
They collided.
Hot coffee sloshed over the woman’s hand and onto the sleeve of her expensive-looking coat.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Audrey gasped, fumbling for napkins. “I wasn’t looking. I’ll pay for the cleaning, please.”
“It’s fine,” the woman said, her voice surprisingly calm. She had honey-blonde hair pulled into a sleek ponytail and sad, intelligent eyes. She dabbed at her sleeve with a napkin Audrey offered. “It’s just coffee.”
But she didn’t move away. She was staring at Audrey. Not with anger, but with a strange, piercing intensity. It felt like she was being x-rayed.
“I know you,” the woman said softly. It wasn’t a question.
Audrey froze. Was she a donor? A board member’s wife? “I’m Audrey Wells. I work at the museum.”
A flicker of something—pity? recognition?—crossed the woman’s face. “I know.” She glanced down at the coffee stain on her coat and then back up at Audrey, her expression hardening with a quiet, weary resolve.
“A piece of advice,” the woman said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Be careful.”
Audrey frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“Men like that,” she said, her gaze unwavering, “they have a way of leaving a trail of wreckage. They forget their past. They forget the people they’ve already broken.”
The words were so specific, so targeted, they couldn’t be random. Audrey’s heart started to hammer against her ribs. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The woman gave a small, sad smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. “You will. The ones who seem too good to be true, who ride in like a hero from a different world? That’s their specialty. Just… watch your back.”
With that, she placed her half-empty cup on a nearby table, turned, and walked out of the coffee shop, leaving Audrey standing there, her own coffee growing cold in her hand.
The bell above the door chimed, marking her exit.
Audrey stood paralyzed, the low hum of the espresso machine filling the sudden silence. Who was that woman? How did she know her?
Men like that. They forget their past. The ones who seem too good to be true.
The words weren’t about Cole. Cole was never too good to be true. He was a nightmare she had mistaken for a dream.
The warning was about Kian.
The mysterious dockworker who spoke about multi-million-dollar financial attacks like he placed them himself. The man who promised to fix everything with shadowy “contacts.” The man whose past was a complete and total blank.
The poison of the stranger’s words seeped into her veins, chilling her to the bone. She was walking into a boardroom to fight for her life’s work, a fight orchestrated by an enemy she couldn’t name.
And now, a seed of doubt had been planted about the one person she thought was her ally.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes until her meeting.
Her stomach churned. The coffee was forgotten. She pushed the door open and stepped back out onto the cold street. The museum stood waiting, impassive and monumental. She had to go in there and fight.
But the woman’s warning echoed in her head, a venomous whisper.
She was walking into a war on two fronts, and she was starting to realize she might be utterly, terrifyingly alone.