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.
CURRENT END OF CONTENT - DO NOT READ PAST THIS PART PLEASE.
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."
"I know."
She looked up. "The Velvet Rope. The Eros batch traced back to his club."
Liam leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking. The morning light caught his face, sharpening the tired lines around his eyes. "He's the lead I have. The trail goes through his inventory. At the gala, you're my consultant. You work the room. Talk art. Charm the old money. Keep their eyes on you while I have a private word with Hart."
"And if someone asks about me? About us?"
"You tell them you're an independent consultant I hired to evaluate the auction. You don't mention the contract. You don't mention the arrangement."
She set the pen down beside the folio, her fingers lingering on the silver barrel. "I'm not a prop, Liam. If I'm going to play a role, I need to know the script. What do I say about the night I was drugged under your roof?"
The question hung in the air, sharp as a blade wrapped in silk.
He watched her for a long moment, then stood. His palms flat on the desk, his shoulders broad beneath the crisp white shirt. "You say nothing. You were ill. A reaction to shellfish. The staff has been told the same. The rumor mill will fill in the rest—I'll make sure it points away from you."
She wanted to push. To ask if he'd found the person who did it. If the maid was the culprit or a scapegoat. But the look in his eyes—the same dangerous stillness from the night he'd pulled her into the cold shower—told her the line was drawn. She looked back at the folio instead. "I need a dress."
"You'll have one." His voice softened a fraction. "Emerald. It'll match your eyes."
The specific words landed like a touch, warm and unwelcome and entirely hers. She closed the folio and stood, the papers pressed against her chest. She reached the door and paused with her hand on the frame, not looking back. "I'll be ready."
The door closed behind her with a soft, final click. The silence in the study stretched, filled only by the creak of a chair and the weight of a plan set in motion.