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The door clicked shut behind Elena, and Liam stood motionless, the taste of her still on his lips. His hand hung in the air where her waist had been, fingers remembering the curve of her through that thin sweater. The game room felt smaller now, the pool table a monument to the bet he'd lost and the kiss he'd taken anyway.
He wanted to follow her. The impulse was physical — a pull in his chest, a heat beneath his collar that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. She'd be halfway to her room by now, cheeks flushed, that stubborn jaw set in a line he was beginning to read as clearly as her contract. He could catch her in the hall. Press her against the wall. Find out what that kiss really meant, without Victor standing in the doorway.
"Sir."
Victor's voice cut through the haze. Liam's jaw tightened, but he didn't turn around.
"I'm not going to question what just happened," Victor said, his tone flat, professional. "I've worked for this family too long to pretend I don't know foolishness when I see it. But we have more urgent matters."
Liam exhaled slowly, letting the air carry the tension out of his shoulders. He turned, and by the time he faced Victor his expression was stone again, the hunger behind his eyes locked away behind the familiar poker face.
"What is it?"
Victor stepped fully into the room, his broad frame filling the doorway briefly before he moved to the side, hands clasped behind his back. The posture of a man delivering bad news he'd rather not own.
"Another raid. A full shipment this time. The new stable batch."
Liam's eyes narrowed. "When?"
"Three hours ago. The transport was hit on the Meridian overpass, just outside the city limits. Two of our security dead, driver unconscious and intensive care. An entire crate — gone."
A beat of silence. Liam's mind shifted gears, the warmth of Elena's mouth replaced by cold calculation. He moved to the pool table, picked up the cue ball, rolled it between his fingers. The weight of it grounded him.
"This was the delivery was scheduled for Sebastian Hart?" Victor continued. "The Velvet Rope's standing order. The new batch was supposed to cover the next three months."
Liam set the cue ball down. It rolled a few inches, tapped the far rail, and stopped.
"Hart," he repeated, tasting the name. “What is his involvement in this? First a vial from his supply, now a crate delivering to him."
"He or someone in his organisation must be tipping someone off." Victor's voice carried no inflection. "And the shipment is suspected to have been taken by Sterns' men. We don't have confirmation yet, but the pattern matches. The vehicles used, the timing, the precision. It's their signature."
Liam turned to face the window. The lake glittered in the dying light, the same lake where Elena had floated with Lisa, the same water where he'd held her after the drug had burned through her system. That had been Eros too. The unstable version. The version that had almost cost him something he hadn't realized he was keeping.
"An entire batch," he said, more to himself than to Victor. "The new stable and pure version. Untraceable in the bloodstream after twelve hours."
"Yes, sir."
"And it was meant for Hart’s club."
"Yes, sir."
Liam's reflection stared back at him from the dark glass. Beyond it, the lake, the trees, the fading sun. Somewhere in that reflection was a man who had kissed his contract — no, who had kissed Elena — and who now had to decide whether to hunt the shipment or hunt the man who'd ordered it.
"How much does Hart know?"
Victor shifted his weight. "That's the complication. The shipment was raided en route. Hart hasn't been informed yet. He may not even know it existed — the order was placed through a middleman, as usual. But if Sterns has it, and if Sterns knows it was meant for Hart..."
"Then Hart's a target," Liam finished. "Or a liability."
"Or both."
Liam pressed his palm flat against the window. The glass was cool, but the heat from his hand bloomed a faint fog that slowly dissipated. He watched it fade, thinking.
The Eros that had been used on Elena and Lisa — the unstable version — had come from somewhere. They'd traced the empty vials to Hart’s supply, but the source of the slow-release treatment on the bedding had never been identified. And now a full batch of stable Eros, the good stuff, the kind that didn't leave a trace after twelve hours, had been taken from Hart's delivery.
Two separate incidents. Or one chain.
"If Sterns has the stable batch," Liam said slowly, "then someone in my household was testing the unstable version before the stable one was ready. Testing it on Elena. On her friend."
Victor was quiet for a long moment. "That logic holds."
"Which means the source of the manor drugging and the raid on Hart's shipment are connected."
"It's the most likely explanation."
Liam turned from the window, his face unreadable. "Then we leak. Someone in this house either fed information to Sterns or worked directly for him."
"The maid who was found with the empty vials claimed she was paid to place them," Victor said. "She wouldn't name the payer. We kept her in the east wing guest room, under watch."
"Has she talked since?"
"No, sir. She's been silent. Frightened, but silent."
Liam walked to the bar cart in the corner of the game room. He poured two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass, didn't drink it, just held it. The amber liquid caught the light.
"The gala is in three days," he said. "I'm bringing Elena as my art consultant. Hart will be there. If he knows his shipment was taken, he'll be looking for answers. If he doesn't know, I'll be the one to tell him."
"And if Hart was expecting the shipment as payment for something?" Victor asked. "Or as leverage?"
Liam took a sip of the whiskey. It burned, a clean burn, the kind that reminded him he was still in control. "Then we find out what he owes and who he owes it to."
Victor nodded, the gesture economical. "Do you want me to lean on the maid? Harder methods?"
"Not yet. She's a thread, not a rope. If we pull too hard, she'll snap, and we lose the trail. Keep her comfortable. Let her think we've forgotten her. Fear settles slower when it's not being fed."
"Understood."
Liam set the whiskey down. The glass made a soft clink against the polished wood. His mind was fully in business mode now, the kiss a distant echo, Elena's face a photograph tucked away in a drawer he'd open later.
"What about the shipment itself?" he asked. "Do we have any idea where Sterns would hold it?"
"Not yet. But we have eyes on three of his known warehouses. If the batch moves again, we'll know within an hour."
"And if it doesn't move?"
"Then Sterns is sitting on it. Waiting. Using it as currency or leverage."
Liam considered this. Ale'Xander Stern was young, arrogant, and hungry. A dangerous combination. His father had built Stern Industries on a foundation of legitimate business and illegitimate ruthlessness, but the son — the son wanted to play kingmaker. And Eros, in its stable form, was a kingmaker's tool. Untraceable, irresistible, and addictive in a way that left the user coming back for more, always more.
"If Sterns has the stable batch," Liam said, "he'll try to distribute it through his own channels. The gala is three days away. He'll want to make a statement. Show his hand."
"You think he'll use it at the gala?"
Liam's smile was thin, humorless. "I think he'll do something that makes sure everyone knows he has it. That's Stern's style. Theatrical. Obvious. The kind of power move that leaves a mark."
Victor's jaw tightened. "Then we need to be ready."
"We will be." Liam straightened his suit jacket, the fabric settling over his shoulders like armor. "I want a full guest list for the gala. Cross-reference it with anyone connected to Sterns — known associates, business partners, recent acquisitions. I want to know who he's sending, and I want to know before I walk through that door."
"I'll have it by morning."
"And Victor —" Liam paused. His hand went to his chest, the spot where the knife had entered a week ago. Still tender, still healing. "Make sure Elena is protected at the gala. She's my cover. If anything happens to her, the whole operation falls apart."
Victor's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted — a slight straightening, a fractional nod. "Understood, sir. She won't be touched."
Liam held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away. "That's all. You're dismissed."
Victor turned and walked to the door, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. At the threshold, he paused, hand on the frame.
"Sir?"
"What?"
"The girl. Elena." Victor's voice was quieter now, less formal. "She held pressure on your wound. Didn't flinch. Didn't run. Most people would have."
Liam didn't respond.
"If she's your cover," Victor said, "she's a good one."
He left, the door clicking shut behind him.
Liam stood alone in the game room, the silence settling around him like a second skin. The whiskey sat untouched on the bar cart. The cue ball rested against the far rail of the pool table. The kiss — Elena's mouth, her breath, the small sound she'd made when his lips met hers — pressed against the edges of his concentration.
He picked up his phone. Opened her contact. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Three dots. A message he couldn't write.
He pocketed the phone, let it rest against his thigh.
Not yet. Not until he knew who had the Eros, who had betrayed him, and how far Sterns was willing to go. Elena was a variable he couldn't afford to compromise — not with curiosity, not with hunger, not with the kind of wanting that made a man reckless.
He left the game room, the lights dimming behind him, and walked the long hall toward the study. Work. Planning. The gala. Three days to turn a lost shipment into an advantage.
Her face followed him the whole way.
He found Presley in the study, already waiting by the desk with a leather folio open. The butler’s peppered gray hair was perfectly combed, his black tailcoat crisp even at this hour.
"Sir. The preliminary guest list you requested."
Liam took it without a word, his eyes scanning the printed names. Socialites, gallery owners, a few politicians, the usual art-world parasites. He flipped a page, then another.
"Sebastian Hart's RSVP came in this afternoon," Presley said, voice low. "He’s bringing a plus-one. A woman named Anya Volkov."
Liam’s gaze snapped up. "Volkov?"
"Russian. Independent curator based in Prague. She arrived in the city two days ago. She and Hart were seen dining at Le Pavillon."
"And her connection to Sterns?"
"None that we’ve found. Yet."
Liam set the list down. "A plus-one is a shield. Or a signal. Find out which."
"Of course, sir."
Presley didn't move. Liam looked at him, saw the hesitation in the set of his shoulders. "Something else?"
"The blue dress for Miss Rossi arrived from the tailor. It's hanging in her room. She hasn't seen it." A pause. "You asked to be informed."
Liam nodded, his mind already elsewhere. The dress was a prop, part of the cover. It shouldn't matter. But he saw it in his head anyway — the sapphire fabric against her skin, the open back, the slit that would ride high on her thigh. A weapon she didn't know how to wield.
"And her research?"
"Thorough. She’s compiled dossiers on every major donor attending, cross-referenced with their known acquisitions and public disputes. She left notes on your desk."
"Good."
He dismissed Presley with a gesture, then sat behind the desk. Elena’s notes were stacked neatly beside his computer, her handwriting precise, almost aggressive in its clarity. She’d underlined names, drawn arrows connecting rivalries, added question marks next to potential weaknesses. It was better work than he’d expected. Better than some of his own analysts.
He read through the first page, then the second. She’d flagged a potential tax evasion scandal involving a donor who’d recently purchased a Basquiat. She’d noted a divorce settlement that had forced the sale of a private sculpture garden. She’d drawn a star next to the name of a reclusive Swiss collector who’d never attended a public event before.
Clever girl.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from an unknown number.