Saturday afternoon light fell through the tall windows of Liam's study, casting long rectangles across the desk where he sat. The manor was quiet—too quiet—and he could hear voices down by the lake. He'd seen them walk down the pathway from the study window an hour ago, Elena in that white sundress, Lisa in cutoffs and a tank top, both of them laughing. Laughing.

He turned his attention back to the papers spread across the mahogany. Shipment manifests. Distribution logs. Transfer receipts from Valmont Enterprises, all stamped with their distinctive green ink. The herbs and compounds that became Eros traveled through channels he'd personally approved, monitored at every stage. Or so he'd believed.

His jaw tightened. Someone had gotten their hands on a vial of the drug. Someone had treated Elena's bedding with a slow-release version. Someone had walked through his halls, past his security, into his guest's room, and he hadn't caught them.

The incident had been contained to a handful of trusted people. The rest of the staff had simply been told that Elena and Lisa had suffered an unexpected reaction to contaminated food. Rumors spread faster than truth inside a house this large, and Liam refused to let gossip turn two victims into the subject of whispered speculation.

And the worst part was he couldnt question everyone without tipping off

The intercom on his desk buzzed. He pressed the button without looking up.

"Presley."

"Sir. I've completed the staff interviews. Everyone has been accounted for."

Liam leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. "And?"

"Nothing conclusive, sir. The maid—Marie—maintains she found the vial in the laundry. She'd been tasked with changing the linens that morning. She says she'd never seen it before."

"And you believe her." It wasn't a question.

A pause. "I do, sir. Her distress was genuine. I don't believe she had any part in this."

Liam closed his eyes. He'd questioned the girl himself—a young woman of nineteen with trembling hands and tears streaming down her face, swearing she'd never seen the vial before, that she'd only picked it up because it was on the floor beside the linen cart. He'd been hard on her. Harder than he should have been, pushing until her voice broke and she couldn't form words anymore.

She'd been telling the truth. He knew it then, and he knew it now.

"Make sure she gets two weeks paid leave," he said. "And a bonus. Whatever you think is appropriate."

"I will arrange it, sir."

"Good. That's all."

He released the button and stared at the papers again, but the numbers blurred. Someone had planted that vial. Someone who knew the maid's schedule, who knew the laundry rotation, who knew the manor well enough to move unseen. And Presley's gut agreed with his own—Marie was a scapegoat, not a conspirator.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

Victor.

He answered. "Tell me you have something."

"Not much, sir." Victor's voice was low, steady. "I traced the vial's batch number. It matches a shipment that left Valmont's facility three months ago, destined for distribution in the eastern district."

"Distribution. Not private sale."

"No, sir. It was logged for the approved club network. Central Las Lona."

Liam's fingers tightened on the phone. "Which club?"

"The Velvet Rope. Downtown."

He knew it. A respectable front—stainless steel and velvet ropes, bottle service and VIP rooms—with a back end that moved product for the approved clientele. The club was supposed to be clean. Tightly monitored. Every transaction is logged.

"And the sale?"

"Untraceable. Cash purchase. The buyer was described as male, of average build, and paid with no ID. The club's cameras show him wearing a cap and keeping his face down. He walked in, made the exchange, walked out."

"And the club owner?"

"Sebastian Hart. He's been cooperative in the past. Claims he has no record of the sale. Swears it wasn't his people."

Liam set his jaw. "He's lying."

"Probably. But we can't prove it without a warrant, and we can't get a warrant without evidence."

"I don't need a warrant. I need a conversation."

A pause. "Sir?"

Liam stood, pacing to the window. He could see the lake from here, a flash of white and blue between the trees. Elena and Lisa were still out there, floating in their borrowed peace. He envied them.

"There's an art gala next week," he said slowly. "Benefiting the Las Lona Contemporary. I've been invited. I've been ignoring the invitation."

"And now?"

"Now I think I should attend. With a guest."

Victor was quiet for a moment. "Miss Rossi."

"She has the right credentials. Art consultant. Knows the scene. It's a natural pairing."

"And the club?"

"No need. I know a man like Sebastian will be attending. He always does to things like this. Can’t get enough of the spotlight. A private meeting with him is all I need to get a conversation about his inventory control."

"You want to hit him in public?"

"I want to see his face when I ask him about the missing batch. I want to know if he's involved, or if someone in his operation is working without his knowledge."

"And the girl?"

Liam's jaw tightened. "She's my cover. And my consultant. Nothing more."

Victor didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was careful. "And if she asks questions?"

"She won't. She's smart enough to know when to stay quiet."

"Is she?"

Liam didn't answer. He watched the lake, the two figures now sitting on the dock, legs dangling in the water. Lisa was gesturing wildly about something. Elena was laughing, head thrown back, hair catching the light.

The sound caught him off guard. After everything that had happened, hearing her laugh again eased a tension in his chest he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.

He turned from the window.

"Set up the RSVP. I'll handle the rest."

"Yes, sir."

The line went dead.

Liam set the phone down and returned to his desk, pulling open a drawer. Inside was a leather-bound folio—the invitation to the Las Lona Contemporary Gala, embossed in silver foil. He'd tossed it aside weeks ago, dismissing it as a social obligation he didn't have time for.

Now it was an opportunity.

He flipped it open, scanning the details. Black tie. Open bar. Silent auction featuring works from emerging local artists. The kind of event he was sure Elena would kill to attend.

He'd give her that much. A night out. A chance to play the part she was meant for. And while she charmed the patrons and discussed brushstrokes, he'd slip away to have a word with Sebastian.

A clean plan. Simple. Effective.

He reached for his pen and began drafting a note, detailing the preparations. Car service. Wardrobe. Security detail—Victor, plus two men he trusted. A private room at the gala for the meeting to follow.

Then, pulling out his phone, He drafts up a text. He needed to prepare her.

Work continues tomorrow. Study 9 A.M. - Thorn.

Sunday morning arrived cool and gray, the sky pressing low against the manor's windows as Elena Rossi climbed the stairs to Liam's study at exactly nine o'clock. She'd dressed carefully—white blouse buttoned to the collar, navy pencil skirt, minimal jewelry—the armor of the professional she'd been before all this began. Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she pushed open the heavy door.

Liam was already seated behind his desk, the morning light catching the silver foil of a thick envelope laid flat in front of him. He looked up as she entered, his gaze steady, assessing. "Good morning."

"Morning." She took her usual seat across from him, hands folded in her lap. "You said we have work today."

"I did." He slid the envelope toward her. "We've been invited to an event. I need you there as my guest and consultant."

Elena's fingers brushed the embossed lettering. "Las Lona Contemporary Gala." She looked up, surprised. "This is the biggest art fundraiser in the city. I've tried to get tickets for years. How did you—" She stopped. Of course. He could buy anything.

Liam leaned back, his chair creaking. "It's black tie. Open bar. Silent auction. The usual circuit.”

Elena set the invitation down. The cardstock felt heavy, expensive, the kind of paper that cost more than a week of groceries back when she'd counted. She reached for a pen on his desk—a silver Montblanc, cool and solid—and turned it in her fingers. "I'll need a list of the auction pieces if you want me to be useful." Her hand brushed the leather folio beside the pen, the same one he'd been reading when she walked in.

"It's already in there." Liam's voice was flat, but his eyes tracked her fingers on the leather. "Along with the guest list, the seating chart, and a dossier on the major patrons."

She pulled the folio into her lap and flipped it open. Inside, the papers were crisp, organized, thorough. A Warhol silkscreen. A Basquiat. Several emerging local artists she'd tracked for years but never had the budget to touch. Her breath caught at a name on the donor list. "Sebastian Hart is attending."

"You know him?" Liam looked at her directly.

“Everyone in the Las Lona art world knows Sebastian Hart.” Elena kept her voice light, her fingers still turning the pen. “He’s the biggest patron of emerging artists in the city. If he buys a piece, every collector in the room suddenly wants that artist’s work. I’ve watched his name singlehandedly launch careers.”

Liam held her gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching until she felt the urge to look away. Then he leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking, and the intensity in his eyes shifted into something more practical.

"You know the art world," he said. "I don't."

Elena blinked. "What?"

"I've bought pieces before. Decorations. Investments. I pick what I'm told to pick, sign the check, and move on." He spread his hands flat on the desk. "I don't know the right names to drop. I don't know which artists are worth watching or which patrons are worth courting. That's your domain."

She studied his face, looking for the trap. "You want me to teach you how to talk about art."

"I want you to teach me how not to embarrass myself." A corner of his mouth twitched. "Or you. Preferably both."

Elena's fingers curled around the edge of the folio. "So this is what you meant by consulting work."

"Part of it." He reached for a leather-bound notebook on the corner of his desk and flipped it open. "I need you to evaluate the auction pieces. Identify three that are worth Thorn Holdings' investment. Not the flashiest bids—the ones that will appreciate in value over the next five years."

She nodded slowly. That made sense. That was work she understood, work she'd built her entire career around. "I can do that."

"I know you can." He slid a second sheet toward her—a printed list of lots with estimated values. "I also want you to network. Talk to the major patrons. Use your actual credentials as an art consultant. Build your business reputation while you're there."

"Build my—" She stopped. "You want me to make contacts for myself?"

"The contract says you work for Thorn Holdings. It doesn't say you can't also work for Elena Rossi." His voice was flat, but something in his eyes flickered. "You'll be more useful to me long-term if you have standing in the art community. A consultant without a reputation is just a person with opinions. A consultant with connections is an asset."

Elena sat back, processing. It was almost generous. Almost strategic. She couldn't tell where one ended, and the other began, and that uncertainty kept her cautious.

"And you?" she asked. "What will you be doing while I'm networking?"

Liam's face went still—that careful, assessing blankness she'd learned to read as a door closing. "I'll be working the room in my own way."

She looked down at the auction list and ran her finger down the lots. "What's the budget?"

"No ceiling."

She looked up. "None?"

"If you find a piece worth acquiring, I’ll acquire it. I trust your judgment." He said it simply, like it cost him nothing. "Consider this your first major assignment as Thorn Holdings' art consultant."

Elena's throat tightened. It was the first time he'd given her something real to do—not a command to test her obedience, not a trap dressed as an opportunity. Actual work. Actual trust.

"I'll need access to recent sales data for comparable pieces," she said, keeping her voice steady. "And a contact at the auction house who can confirm provenance before we bid."

"Presley will set up whatever you need." He closed his notebook and set it aside. "We leave Saturday at noon. Return Sunday evening."

"The entire weekend?" She looked up from the invitation.

"It's a gala." He stood, and she rose with him automatically. "Dress appropriately. I'll have three options sent to your room this evening."

Elena gathered the folio and papers, tucking them against her chest. "I'll have a preliminary evaluation ready by Wednesday."

"Good." He was already reaching for his phone when the conversation ended. "Close the door on your way out."

Elena slipped out of the study and pulled the door closed behind her with a soft click. The folio and papers were warm against her chest, the weight of them settling into something that felt almost like purpose. She walked down the hallway, her heels muffled by the runner, and climbed the stairs to her room.

Inside, she set the documents on the small writing table by the window. The morning light was thin, gray, filtering through the glass and casting the room in a muted glow. She stood there for a moment, her hand resting on the leather folio, and let her mind drift back to the name on that guest list.

Sebastian Hart.

She hadn't seen him in months. Not since that opening at the Meridian Gallery, when he'd met her near the bar and talked for twenty minutes about the value of emerging talent. His voice had been smooth, practiced, the kind of charisma that made you feel like the only person in the room. And then, at the end of the conversation, he'd reached out and touched her face—just a brush of his fingers along her jawline, almost gentle—and smiled like he'd already won something.

She’d stepped back on instinct, not out of panic, but out of a clear, immediate sense that the interaction had crossed into something too focused, too personal for the setting. Her excuse had been smooth, her departure even smoother, but the warmth in her cheeks had lingered—not from flattery, but from the uncomfortable precision of how well he seemed to be reading her.

It hadn’t been the first time they had spoken at length, either. Just the first time she had left a conversation aware of how deliberately he seemed to remember her afterward.

He hadn't pushed. But she'd felt the weight of his attention long after she'd walked out the door. The way he looked at her, like she was a piece he was considering acquiring.

Elena shook her head and pressed her palms flat against the table's surface. She wasn't the same woman who'd fled that gallery, clutching her clutch and avoiding eye contact. She'd survived Liam's scrutiny, his commands, his hands. A few hours of Sebastian’s charm shouldn't be harder than that.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from the thought.

"Miss Rossi." Presley's voice, calm and measured. "I have the garments Mr. Thorn requested."

She crossed the room and opened the door. Presley stood in the hallway, a garment bag draped over each arm, a third folded neatly across his forearm. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was something efficient in his posture, like a man who had done this a thousand times.

"Come in," she said, stepping aside.

He entered and laid the bags across her bed with practiced care, unzipping each one in turn. The first revealed a dress of deep, vivid blue—sapphire, the color of the sea at night, with a fitted bodice and a skirt that fell in clean, elegant lines. The fabric shimmered faintly in the low light, catching on the edges of her vision.

The second was crimson, bold and unapologetic, cut low at the neckline and slit high along the thigh. A single sleeve on one side, and sleeveless on the other. It was the kind of dress designed to draw every eye in the room and hold them.

The third was brown. Simple. Tasteful. The kind of dress that would blend into any crowd without leaving a mark.

Elena reached out and touched the red dress's sleeve. The silk was cool and heavy. "This one's too flashy for me." She shook her head, pulling her hand back. She shook her head, stepping back from the blue. "I'd feel like it would be too much attention." —every eye in the room would pin her to the wall, and she'd have nowhere to hide in this.

Presley inclined his head. "Mr. Thorn did say you were to choose what suited you."

She turned to the brown dress. Her fingers brushed the fabric—soft, well-made, but understated. She studied it for a long moment, then let out a breath. "It's beautiful, but it's too simple. I feel like I'd have the opposite effect and disappear in it."

Her eyes drifted to the sapphire blue.

The dress was a deep sapphire blue, made of smooth satin-like fabric that caught the light with a soft, liquid sheen. It looked like it would fit her closely through the bodice and waist, shaping her figure before falling in a clean, elegant line to the floor.

It had a refined halter neckline that wrapped gently around her neck, leaving her shoulders and collarbone exposed. The design framed her upper body with simple, elegant lines while offering a secure, understated fit.

The back was completely open, plunging from the nape of her neck down to just above her lower back, leaving her skin fully exposed except for the single halter strap holding it in place. The effect was striking—bare, confident, and unforgettable.

The skirt followed her shape down through the hips before falling straight into a sleek column silhouette. A thigh-high slit on one side broke the clean line, allowing for ease of movement and subtle flashes of her leg as she walked.

There was no heavy decoration—no lace or embroidery—just the richness of the fabric and the precision of the cut. The simplicity made it powerful. The deep blue color brought out her eyes and contrasted sharply with her dark hair, making the entire look feel intentional, composed, and impossible to ignore.

"This one," she said quietly.