Marta's stew had been rich and warm, the kind of meal that made you want to curl up somewhere and sleep through the afternoon. Elena pushed her empty bowl aside and watched Lisa scrape the last of hers clean, the other woman's chopsticks working with mechanical efficiency.

"Okay," Lisa said, setting the bowl down with a satisfied sigh. "That was exactly what I needed. Rainy day, hot stew, good company." She tilted her head, glancing toward the tall windows where the grey sky had begun to lighten. "Hey. Rain's letting up."

Elena followed her gaze. The clouds were thinning, pale sunlight breaking through in watery shafts across the lawn. The lake beyond the manor's grounds would be glinting now, still and cool.

"You're thinking what I'm thinking," Lisa said, already pushing back from the table.

“You want to go to the beach?” Elena asked, a smile already tugging at her mouth. She knew her friend too well. She’d use any excuse she could to throw on a bikini.

"The beach." Lisa grinned. "I came all the way out here. I’m not leaving without at least one proper beach day. Come on. Let’s go grab our suits."

Elena hesitated, but only for a second. The manor had felt too quiet all morning—Liam gone before dawn, Presley with him, nothing but the sound of rain against glass and her own restless thoughts. A walk in the sun with Lisa was exactly the normal she needed.

"Fine," she said. "But I'm not getting in the water if it's freezing."

“Chicken.” Lisa was already halfway to the stairs. “Last one ready loses the best spot on the beach.”

Elena caught up with her in the upstairs hallway, and they pushed through her room door together, laughing. The afternoon light slanted through the lace curtains, catching the dust motes floating in the air. Her bed was still unmade from the morning.

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” Lisa moved to the wardrobe and began sliding the hangers aside, peering at the clothes as she went. “You know, for someone who actually lives here, you have a ridiculous amount of closet space.”

Elena laughed softly and followed her across the room. Lisa continued digging through the wardrobe, pulling out a dress here and a blouse there before putting each one back.

“Oh, I remember this,” Lisa said, holding up a light dress for a moment before returning it to its hanger. “You wore this the last time I was here.”

“I did.”

Lisa shifted a few more hangers aside, then stopped. Her hand disappeared farther into the wardrobe before emerging with a swimsuit draped over her fingers.

“There it is.”

Elena glanced over and immediately recognized it. “I was wondering where that went.”

Lisa held it up, inspecting it for barely a second before handing it over. “I remember this one.”

Elena took it from her and started to strip. The blouse slipped from her shoulders. Cool air touched her skin.

Lisa went suddenly quiet. Then came a sharp intake of breath.

“Elena.”

The word came out strange. Tight. Elena turned, one arm still crossed over her chest. "What?"

Lisa had gone still, her shirt half-off, her eyes fixed on Elena's chest. Her face had drained of its usual amusement.

"What the hell is that?"

Elena looked down. The bruise had faded some, but it was still there—a dark bloom across the upper curve of her left breast, the edges gone yellow-green with healing, the center still a deep, angry purple. A perfect thumbprint of pressure, the mark of a grip that had held her hard.

"Oh." Elena's hand moved up, instinctively covering it. "That's—it's not—"

"Did he do that to you?" Lisa's voice had gone flat. Dangerous. "Did he—Elena, that looks like someone grabbed you hard enough to—"

"No. Lisa. Stop." Elena crossed the space between them, catching Lisa's wrist before she could say anything else. "It's not what you think. It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?" Lisa's jaw was set, her eyes searching Elena's face. "Because I've seen bruises like that before. And it wasn't from—"

"I almost drowned."

The words came out fast, blunt, the truth she'd been carrying since the island. Elena watched Lisa's expression shift from fury to confusion.

"What?"

"On the island. We went snuba diving in this cove. My hose snagged on some coral and I—I panicked. Inhaled water." Elena's hand dropped from the bruise. "I was going under. I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die."

Lisa's eyes had gone wide. She was still holding her shirt, but she wasn't moving. "Elena."

"He dove after me. Pulled me out. Did CPR on the beach until I coughed the water up." Elena swallowed. The memory was still sharp—the burn in her lungs, the weight of darkness, then the pressure of his hands on her chest, forcing the water out. "He saved my life."

The silence stretched. Lisa's mouth opened, then closed. She blinked, something shifting behind her eyes.

"He saved you," she repeated slowly.

"Yes."

"He—" Lisa's voice cracked. She dropped her shirt and grabbed Elena's shoulders, pulling her into a hard hug. "Jesus Christ, Elena. You almost died. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you." Elena's voice came out muffled against Lisa's shoulder. "It was—it was scary. But I'm okay. He got me out in time."

Lisa pulled back, holding Elena at arm's length, her eyes wet. "He saved you," she said again, softer this time. Like she was turning the fact over in her hands, examining it from every angle.

"Yeah."

"That's—" Lisa shook her head, a disbelieving laugh escaping her. "Okay. Okay, I was ready to hate him. I was ready to come up here and give you a whole speech about how he doesn't deserve you, how he's just using you, how you need to get out—"

"Lisa."

“But he dove into the water to save you.” Lisa's grip on Elena's shoulders tightened. “I don't know what to do with that, Elena. I really don't. I wanted to believe he was exactly the man I thought he was, and now you've got me standing here trying to figure out how someone I hate can also be the reason you're standing here.”

Elena looked away. The bruise on her chest suddenly felt heavier, a reminder of everything she still didn't know how to name.

"He's not what I expected," she said quietly. "He's—there's more to him than the cold businessman everyone sees. I don't know what it means yet. But I know he didn't hurt me. This—" she touched the bruise through her shirt, "—this was him saving my life."

Lisa was quiet for a long moment. Then she let out a breath and reached down, picking up her discarded shirt.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. I'll—I'll give him a chance. But if he ever actually hurts you—"

"You'll be the first to know."

"Damn right I will." Lisa pulled her shirt back on, then reached for the crimson swimsuit, holding it out. "Now put this on. We've got a beach to conquer, and I need to stop thinking about you almost drowning before I start to cry."

Elena took the swimsuit, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "You were going to cry?"

"I'm emotionally fragile. It's a known condition." Lisa was already wiggling out of her jeans. "Now hurry up. The sun's not going to wait for us."

Elena stepped into the crimson bottoms, pulling them up, then reached for the top. The fabric was cool against her skin, settling into place. She was just reaching for the clasp of the halter when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

They both looked at it.

"You expecting someone?" Lisa asked.

"No." Elena crossed to the nightstand, picking up the phone. The screen glowed with an unknown number.

For a moment, she simply stared at it. Something about seeing an unfamiliar number now made her uneasy, even when she couldn't explain why.

"I should take this," she said, her voice careful.

Lisa's eyes flicked from the phone to Elena's face. She paused, then shrugged, reaching for her own swimsuit. "Sure. I'll finish getting dressed. Take your time."

Elena stepped into the hallway, pulling the door mostly closed behind her. The corridor was dim, quiet, the only sound the distant ticking of a clock somewhere below. She pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Elena."

The voice was familiar—smooth, warm, but missing its usual flirtatious edge. Professional. Measured.

"Sebastian?"

"I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

She leaned against the hallway wall, her bare shoulders cool against the wood paneling. "No, it's fine. What's—is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. Better than fine, actually. I have a proposition for you."

Her grip tightened on the phone. "A proposition?"

She heard him exhale, a soft sound that might have been a laugh. "Not that kind. Business darling. I'm running a private art auction in four days at the Velvet Rope. Small, curated, very high-end clientele. My usual curator just quit—some disagreement about commission splits; I won't bore you with the details—and I need someone to step in."

Elena's heart gave a small, surprised thump. “You want me to curate an auction?”

“You were the first person I thought of. The only person, really.” His voice was sincere, stripped of its usual charm. “I watched you at the gala. You weren't just looking at the pieces. You were studying them. The composition, the artist, the condition. You knew which pieces belonged together and which ones didn't.”

Elena said nothing, listening.

“Most of the work is already done,” Sebastian continued. “The collection's been catalogued. The provenance documentation is assembled, the condition reports are finished, and the venue and auction logistics are already handled. What I need is someone to look at the collection with a fresh eye. Decide what belongs together, how the pieces should be presented, what needs more context in the catalog, and make sure the whole thing feels cohesive.”

“You make it sound like I already know what I'm doing.”

“You do.” Sebastian paused. “Maybe you haven't curated an auction before, but you've been doing the important part for years. You understand art, Elena. You understand why people want certain pieces and what makes one work worth more than another. That's harder to teach than the mechanics of an auction.”

Elena glanced down at her hands. “And you're sure you want me handling something like this?”

“I'm sure I don't want anyone else handling it.” His voice softened. “I need someone who'll tell me when a piece doesn't belong, even if I happen to like it. Someone who won't be impressed by a name or a price tag. I saw enough at the gala to know you won't tell me what I want to hear just to make me happy.”

His tone softened.

“I think you’re exactly the person I need.”

She pressed her free hand against the wall, her mind racing. This was a real opportunity—exactly the kind of work she had wanted for years. But it also meant working closely with Sebastian Hart, a man she knew in passing from a few brief encounters, who had always been polite and respectful, though it was no secret he had once shown an interest in her.

And after everything that had happened with Liam, Elena wasn't sure how complicated that might become.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "I have responsibilities here. With Liam—"

"I'm not asking you to leave anything. The auction is in four days, at the Velvet Rope. You'd come to the club, review the pieces, help me finalize the catalog, and be there on the night to oversee the presentation. I’ll handle Liam. It's a few days of work, not a lifetime commitment."

She could hear the smile in his voice, but it wasn't the flirtatious one. It was the voice of a man who knew he was offering her something she wanted.

"Why me?" she asked. "You must know other curators. People with more experience."

"I do. But they're not you."

The words hung in the air between them. She waited for him to qualify them, to turn it into a joke, but he didn't.

"I saw the way you looked at that young artist's work at the gala," he said. "You saw something in it that wasn't just technique. You saw the person behind it. That's rare. That's what I need."

Elena closed her eyes. The hallway was quiet around her, the weight of the decision settling onto her shoulders.

“Can I think about it?” she asked.

“Of course.” There was a brief pause. “But I do need an answer tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“The auction is in four days. If you decide it's not something you want, I need enough time to find someone else and get them up to speed.” His tone remained easy, without a trace of pressure. “I'll send you everything I have—the pieces, the venue, the schedule. Look it over and call me tonight, either way.”

Elena opened her eyes, staring at the dark wood of the wall. “Okay. I'll look at it.”

“Good. I’ll have everything sent over right away.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Elena. I'll talk to you tonight.”

The line went dead.

She stood there for a long moment, the phone warm in her hand, her heart beating a strange, uneven rhythm. An art auction. Sebastian Hart. A few days of work doing what she loved, in a world that felt like hers.

She pushed off the wall and walked back into the room. Lisa was standing by the window, her swimsuit on, a cover-up draped over her arm. She looked up when Elena came in.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just—work stuff." Elena set the phone down on the nightstand. "I might have to handle something for a bit. But I'll try and come down to the beach in a bit, okay?"

Lisa's eyes narrowed, but she didn't push. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Go on. I'll catch up."

Lisa studied her for a moment longer, then nodded, grabbing her towel from the bed. “Don't take too long. I refuse to waste a good beach day.”

"I won't."

Lisa smiled at her, then disappeared into the hallway, her footsteps fading down the stairs.

Elena stood alone in the quiet room, the crimson swimsuit hugging her skin, the bruise still visible above the fabric. Her phone was still in her hand. A message from Sebastian waited on the screen, a file containing the details of the auction.

She hesitated, her thumb resting against it. Four days wasn't much time. If she accepted, there would be a collection to review, a catalog to finalize, and an entire auction to oversee.

It was a lot to take on.

But it was exactly the kind of opportunity she had been waiting for.

Elena tapped the file and opened it.

The first page contained a list—twelve pieces, each with an artist's name, a medium, and an estimated value. The numbers made her breath catch. These weren't amateur works or decorative pieces. These were serious works. A small Monet water lily study. A Rodin bronze, early cast. Three contemporary pieces she didn't recognize, but the estimates alone told her they were significant.

She scrolled through the notes again, taking in the numbers and provenance details. There was none of Sebastian's usual charm or flirtation in the file. Just straightforward information from someone who clearly knew what he had and wanted it handled properly.

Elena pushed up from the bed and padded barefoot down the hallway, the file still open on her phone. The library was dim and cool, the afternoon light filtering through tall windows in pale shafts. She settled into the large leather lounge chair by the inactive lantern, tucking her legs beneath her, and began to work through the documents in earnest.

Twenty minutes passed in a quiet blur of estimates and condition reports. She made notes on her phone—which pieces belonged together, which needed special handling, which artists deserved more context in the catalog. The work felt good. Real. Like muscles she hadn't stretched in too long finally being used again.

She set the phone down and stretched her arms overhead, her neck cracking softly. Her gaze drifted across the room, past the shelves of leather-bound volumes, past the tall windows, toward the back corner where she'd hidden Amara's journal behind a book on Renaissance painting.

Her stomach tightened. She hadn't touched it since she'd hidden it. Hadn't let herself think about what else might be inside.

Elena stood, meaning to check on Lisa first—to make sure her friend had actually made it to the beach and wasn't drowning in the lake or getting lost in the manor's grounds. She crossed to the window and looked out.

The sight stopped her.

Lisa stood near the end of the dock, still damp from the water, a towel draped loosely around her shoulders. She was laughing at something Victor had said, her head tipped back as he stood beside her, his broad frame relaxed as they looked out across the lake. From the upper-level window, Elena couldn't make out their conversation through the glass, but Lisa's laughter carried faintly through the open air.

Victor's expression softened, the barest hint of a smile crossing his face.

Lisa leaned closer, saying something Elena couldn't hear, then reached out and touched his arm. Victor didn't pull away. A moment later, they turned together and started down the dock.

A small smile tugged at Elena's mouth. Lisa looked happy, though that wasn't unusual. She had always been quick to flirt, quick to laugh, and even quicker to make herself comfortable around people she liked.

Elena shook her head faintly. Lisa was just being Lisa.

Elena turned from the window. Her eyes found the corner again, the space behind the Renaissance book.

She crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it, pulled the volume aside, and lifted the worn leather journal from its hiding place. The cover was cool and smooth beneath her fingers, the pages soft with age. She carried it back to the lounge chair and sat down, the weight of it settling in her lap.

She turned to the place where she'd left off, scanning the page for the next entry. Amara's handwriting—elegant and precise, the letters slightly slanted—filled the yellowed paper.

Elena paused, her eyes lingering on the first line. Something about the words made her chest tighten. She read them again, slower this time, her attention narrowing until there was nothing in the room but the faded ink on the page.

Liam just learned his first failure...