Audrey stared at Cole’s hand on her stomach. It was a brand. A claim. A cage of flesh and bone closing around her and the secret life inside her.
He was smiling. Triumphant.
Something inside her didn’t just break. It vaporized.
She pulled her hand away from his. She stood up so quickly her chair scraped against the floor.
“Audrey?” Cole’s smile faltered.
“Thank you for the information, Cole,” she said, her voice a flat, dead thing. She took the digital recorder. She left the folder of lies on the table. “I’ll handle it from here.”
“Wait. We’re handling it. Together.” He stood to follow her.
“No,” she said, turning to face him. The look in her eyes must have been terrifying, because he actually stopped. “We are not doing anything. This is my career. My problem. Stay away from me.”
She walked out of the cafe without looking back, the recorder clutched in her hand like a grenade.
She didn’t go to the museum. She couldn’t. She walked aimlessly for blocks, the city a blur of noise and motion. She dropped the recorder into a public trash can, the clatter of it hitting the bottom a final, satisfying sound.
She was done with his games. Done with his poison.
But she was still trapped. The board wanted a scapegoat. Cole had just served one up on a silver platter, and she had thrown it in the garbage.
The next morning, an email arrived in her inbox. It was from the secretary of the “New York Arts Patronage Circle,” a stuffy, prestigious group of old-money benefactors.
Dear Ms. Wells,
A patron who wishes to remain anonymous has expressed a significant interest in your upcoming exhibit. They have been following the recent difficulties at the museum and would like to discuss a potential endowment. They have requested a private lunch to ascertain the project’s viability.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. An endowment. From a secret patron. It was a lifeline. A miracle. It was the one thing that could save her.
There was no question. She had to go.
The restaurant was a hushed cathedral of wealth. Dark wood, white tablecloths, and waiters who moved like ghosts. She was led to a quiet corner booth.
A woman was already sitting there, her back to the room. She wore a tailored navy-blue dress. Her blonde hair was swept into an elegant, perfect chignon.
As the woman turned, Audrey’s blood froze.
It was the woman from the coffee shop. The one who had warned her.
But her face was different now. The sadness was gone, replaced by a glacial, appraising calm. She didn’t look like a stranger. She looked like a queen holding court.
“Ms. Wells,” the woman said, her voice smooth as polished marble. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
Audrey sank into the leather booth, her mind reeling. “You… you’re the anonymous patron?”
“I am a patron of many things,” the woman said, gesturing for the waiter. “But today, I’m here on a more personal matter. My name is Beatrice Sterling.”
The name meant nothing to her. But the way she said it—like an announcement—sent a chill down Audrey’s spine.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Audrey said. “The email…”
“The email was a necessary fiction to ensure your attendance,” Beatrice said, dismissing it with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “I’m not here to discuss your exhibit. I’m here to discuss my son.”
Audrey’s breath hitched. “Your son?”
“Kian,” Beatrice said, and the name on her lips sounded foreign. Expensive. Wrong. “I know you’ve been seeing him.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact. The coffee shop collision hadn’t been an accident. It was reconnaissance. This woman, this Beatrice, had been watching her.
“What do you want?” Audrey asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Beatrice smiled, a thin, bloodless motion. “For a curator, you have a refreshing directness. I want you to disappear from his life. Completely.”
Audrey just stared. The sheer arrogance of it was stunning.
“You have to understand,” Beatrice continued, her tone condescending, as if explaining a complex theory to a child. “A man like Kian has certain… responsibilities. A path. He can afford to have his distractions, his little forays into a more… authentic world. But they are temporary. And you, Ms. Wells, are a temporary complication that has gone on for too long.”
A man like Kian? The man who lived in a tiny apartment over the water? The man who wore worn-out jeans and smelled of sea salt and engine oil?
“You don’t know him,” Audrey said, a protective anger flaring in her chest.
Beatrice laughed. A short, sharp, humorless sound. “Oh, my dear girl. It is you who has no idea who he is.”
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a long, cream-colored envelope. She slid it across the table. It stopped just inches from Audrey’s hand.
“I find that most complications can be resolved with the right incentive,” Beatrice said. “Inside that envelope is a cashier’s check for one million dollars.”
Audrey stared at the envelope. It was unreal. A number with that many zeros didn’t exist in her world.
“It’s yours,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “All you have to do is take it, pack a bag, and leave New York. You will resign from the museum. You will change your number. You will never contact Kian again. You will become a ghost.”
One million dollars. It would solve everything. Her financial worries, the museum, the war with Cole. She could go anywhere. Start over. Be safe.
She looked at Beatrice’s cold, expectant face. This woman believed she could buy her. That she could purchase her silence, her absence, her heart. That she was just another line item on a budget.
She thought of Kian’s arms around her in the dark. She thought of the tiny, secret flutter in her womb.
She pushed the envelope back across the table.
“No.”
Beatrice’s smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said no,” Audrey repeated, her voice shaking but clear. “He’s not for sale. I’m not for sale.”
For the first time, a flicker of genuine emotion crossed Beatrice’s face. It was pure, distilled fury.
“You are making a catastrophic mistake,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “You think this is a fairytale? You are a nobody from nowhere. You are a problem. And I always, always solve my problems.”
She stood up, her movements sharp and precise. “You have made your choice. And you will find it comes with consequences you cannot possibly imagine. You have no idea what kind of war you’ve just declared.”
Beatrice turned and walked away, leaving Audrey alone in the silent, opulent restaurant. The untouched envelope sat on the white tablecloth like a declaration of that war.
Shaking, Audrey stood and walked out, leaving the check behind. She stumbled out onto the bright, busy street, gasping for air. Her world had just been tilted on its axis. Kian had a mother who could write million-dollar checks and issue threats like a mob boss.
Who was he? Who was she fighting?
Her phone vibrated in her hand. A text from an unknown number.
She opened it.
It was a photograph. A candid shot, taken from a distance. Kian was standing on a sunny street corner, talking to the woman from the coffee shop. To Beatrice Sterling. Between them, holding Beatrice’s hand, was a small, blonde toddler.
The photo was a gut punch. Beatrice hadn’t just collided with her in a coffee shop. Beatrice was his mother.
And the woman she had warned Audrey about—the people they’ve already broken—was standing right next to him. With a child.