Audrey stood on the curb, the forged photograph a toxic heat in her hand. Cole was gone, but his trap was set, the steel jaws waiting to snap shut at nine a.m.
She had to run. But where?
The city felt like a cage, every street corner a potential dead end. She walked without thinking, her feet carrying her back to the one place that felt like hers.
The museum was quiet. A tomb for a career that was already dead.
She sat at her desk, staring at the screen, the cursor blinking, mocking her. She had no moves left. Cole had her in checkmate.
Then, an email chimed in her inbox. The subject line was pristine, professional.
An Inquiry from the New York Arts Patronage Circle.
Her heart skipped a beat. She clicked it open.
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.
A potential endowment.
The words shimmered on the screen. It wasn’t just a lifeline. It was a miracle. A secret benefactor, appearing out of nowhere, was the one thing that could save her. The one thing that could free her from Cole’s web.
She typed her reply with shaking fingers. Yes. Absolutely, yes.
The restaurant was a hushed cathedral of wealth. Dark wood, white tablecloths, and waiters who moved like ghosts. It was a world away from the gritty authenticity of The Crow’s Nest. This was a place where power was the main course.
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 Audrey approached, the woman turned.
Audrey’s blood froze. Her entire body went numb.
It was the stranger from the coffee shop. The woman who had looked at her with such pity, who had delivered that cryptic warning.
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 a blank, roaring static. “You… you’re the anonymous patron?”
“I am a patron of many things,” the woman said, gesturing for the waiter without looking at him. “But today, I’m here on a more personal matter. My name is Beatrice Sterling.”
Sterling.
The name hit her like a physical blow. The name on Kian’s secret phone. B. Sterling.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Audrey managed, her voice a thin thread.
“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.
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 Audrey Wells was just another line item on a budget.
She thought of Kian’s arms around her in the dark, his voice a rough whisper against her skin.
She thought of the tiny, secret flutter in her womb. Her baby. Their baby.
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, 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 bomb.
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 paparazzi shot, crisp and professional.
Kian.
He was in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his hair styled, a ridiculously expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He looked powerful. Cold. A complete stranger. He was stepping out of a gleaming black limousine, his hand extended to help a woman descend onto a red carpet.
The woman was Beatrice Sterling.
The dockworker was gone. The man in the worn t-shirt was a ghost. In his place was a different man entirely—a prince of the city, at home in a world of wealth and power she couldn’t begin to comprehend.
Beatrice’s threat echoed in her ears.
It is you who has no idea who he is.
Looking at the picture, at the lie he had been living, Audrey felt a chasm open up beneath her feet.
She wasn’t just in a war.
She was fighting on the wrong side, for a man she didn’t even know.