AYALA POV
The sound came just as I stepped back from the canvas to evaluate the color balance—three soft knocks on the studio door. Not forceful. Not hesitant. Just… measured.
My heart jumped.
I wiped my hands on a paint-stained rag, my pulse already quickening. Part of me whispered Vladimir. But it was too soon, wasn’t it?
I crossed the room slowly, peeking through the window first.
It wasn’t him.
A man stood on the stoop. Mid-thirties, maybe older, in a sharply cut gray coat and dark trousers. His hair was cleanly trimmed, his jawline angular. Hands behind his back like he’d been waiting a while.
And he wasn’t alone.
Behind him, parked across the street, was a black town car. Not flashy. Just… expensive in the way quiet power always was.
I opened the door a crack.
“Can I help you?”
The man nodded politely, his voice low and smooth. “Miss Shomer?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously.
“I represent the foundation that awarded your grant. I was asked to deliver a personal letter—along with a few c
