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, though he could hear the faint sound of voices from down by the lake. An hour earlier, he'd watched them from the study window as they walked down the path—Elena in a sundress, Lisa in cutoffs and a tank top, both of them laughing together. He'd found himself watching them longer than he intended.

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, and into his guest's room without being caught.

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 that he couldn't question everyone without tipping off whoever was responsible. He pushed the papers aside and reached for the small bell on the edge of his desk.

A moment later, there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Presley.”

The door opened, and the steward stepped inside. "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. Liam already had his own conclusion, but he wanted Presley's opinion anyway. Presley had served the Thorn family long enough to recognize when something didn't fit, and Liam trusted his judgment—even when it confirmed what he already suspected.

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

Liam had questioned the girl himself, then gone back through the details afterward—the linen cart, the delivery records, the security footage, and her movements that morning. One detail hadn't lined up, so he'd questioned her again. She was nineteen, with trembling hands and tears streaming down her face, and she'd sworn 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 pushed until her voice broke and she'd struggled to form the words.

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.”

Presley turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Liam looked back at the papers on his desk, but the numbers blurred. Someone had planted that vial. Someone who knew the maid's schedule, understood the laundry rotation, and knew the manor well enough to move through it unseen. Presley's gut agreed with his own—Marie was a scapegoat, not a conspirator.

His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. Victor. He answered immediately. “Tell me you have something.”

“Not much, sir.” Victor's voice was low and 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 in central Las Lona.”

Liam's fingers tightened around the phone. “Which club?”

“The Velvet Rope. Downtown.”

Liam knew the club. It was one of the city's most exclusive gentlemen's clubs and one of Sebastian Hart's most reliable distribution points for Eros. Liam knew Sebastian by reputation and had crossed paths with him before, but they rarely dealt with each other directly. He'd never had reason to question him, and until now, there had been no reason to.

“And the sale?”

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

Liam was silent for a moment. The Velvet Rope was the first solid connection they'd found, but it didn't tell him whether Sebastian knew anything about the sale.

“Have we looked into Hart?”

“Not yet, sir.”

Liam's jaw tightened. “Then we should.”

A brief pause followed. “I'll have someone start digging.”

“No.” Liam looked toward the rain-streaked window. “I'll handle Hart myself. I don't want him tipped off, and I want a read of him for myself.”

He stood and crossed to the window. Through the trees, he could see the water, a flash of white and blue between the branches. Elena and Lisa were still out there, sitting on the dock, their conversation carrying faintly through the glass.

Then the invitation came back to him.

“There’s an art gala next week,” he said slowly. “Benefiting the Las Lona Contemporary. I've been invited for weeks.”

Victor was quiet for a moment.

Liam's gaze remained on the lake. The connection was almost too convenient. A public event filled with wealthy donors and people from the art world. Sebastian would have every reason to attend, and Liam could approach him without making it look like an investigation.

“And now?” Victor asked.

“Now I think I should attend.” Liam's eyes shifted toward the desk. “With a guest.”

“Miss Rossi.”

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

“And the club?”

“No need.” Liam's expression hardened slightly. “A man like Sebastian will be at something like this. He never could resist the spotlight. I'll have my conversation with him there.”

Victor was silent for a beat. “You want to approach him in public?”

“I want to see his face when I ask about the missing batch.” Liam's voice remained calm. “I need 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.” Liam looked back toward the lake. “She's smart enough to know when to stay quiet.”

“Is she?”

Liam didn't answer. His attention settled on the two figures sitting on the dock. Lisa was gesturing wildly about something, while Elena laughed, her head tipped back, her hair catching the afternoon 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.

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

Liam Thorn: Work continues tomorrow. Study 9 A.M.

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.” Elena took her usual seat across from him, settling her hands 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. A masked charity 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, 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 at least three that are worth Thorn Holdings' investment. Not the flashiest bids—the ones that will appreciate 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 sounded almost generous, but she couldn't quite settle on what to make of it. With Liam, she was beginning to suspect there was always more to things than what he said.

She glanced down at the folio again, her fingers resting against the edge of the page. Whatever his reasons were, she wasn't ready to assume they were entirely for her benefit.

"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 recent auction results for comparable works,” she said, already thinking through the pieces she'd seen in the folio. “And someone at the auction house who can confirm provenance and condition reports before we make any bids.”

“Presley will arrange whatever you need.” Liam 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. The folio and papers rested against her chest, their weight giving her something to focus on as she headed down the hall. Her heels were muffled by the runner as she climbed the stairs toward 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 the opening at the Meridian Gallery, when he'd met her near the bar and spent twenty minutes talking about the value of emerging talent. His voice had been smooth and easy, and he had a way of making conversation feel effortless, as though he'd known her for years.

And when they'd parted, he'd stepped closer and straightened the delicate chain of her necklace where it had twisted against her collarbone. His fingers had brushed her skin as he'd fixed it. 

She'd still stepped back, more from surprise than discomfort, and he'd immediately given her the space. He hadn't pressed the conversation or questioned her reaction. He'd simply smiled, wished her a good evening, and walked away.

Elena remembered that more than anything else. Sebastian Hart knew how to make an impression, but he also seemed to know when to leave one alone.

It hadn't been the first time they'd spoken at length, either. Just the first time she'd left a conversation with the distinct impression that Sebastian Hart remembered people more carefully than most.

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, and the constant pressure of living under his roof. 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 and a third folded neatly across his forearm. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his posture was efficient and practiced, 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 in a rich sapphire blue, the color deep enough to remind her of the sea at night. The fitted bodice gave way to a long, sleek skirt, and the satin-like fabric caught the low light with a faint shimmer.

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 beneath her fingers. “This one's too flashy for me.” She drew her hand back, imagining every eye in the room turning toward her. The neckline was too low, the slit too high, and the whole dress seemed designed to make sure no one could look anywhere else.

She turned to the brown dress. Her fingers brushed the fabric—soft, well-made, and tasteful. It was beautiful, but too restrained. She could already imagine herself disappearing into the crowd beside women wearing diamonds and gowns chosen to make an impression.

Her gaze returned to the sapphire blue.

The halter neckline wrapped neatly around her neck, leaving her shoulders and collarbone bare. The back was completely open, the fabric falling from the nape of her neck to just above her lower back, held in place by a single strap. It was daring without being excessive, the kind of dress that depended more on the woman wearing it than on decoration.

The skirt followed the line of her hips before falling into a sleek column, with a thigh-high slit along one side. There was no lace, embroidery, or beading anywhere on it. Nothing softened the clean lines or distracted from the cut.

She studied her reflection in the mirror, imagining the dress on her. The sapphire would bring out the hazel in her eyes and stand sharply against her dark hair. It was elegant, striking, and far more revealing than anything she'd normally choose for herself, but somehow it felt less intimidating than the red.

Her fingers rested lightly against the fabric.

“This one,” she said quietly.