CHAPTER 2

FIONA ASHFORD POV

The heavy iron gates of the Mercer estate slowly groaned open, parting just enough for the massive black Maybach to roll through. The headlights were blinding, cutting through the thick sheet of rain and pinning me like a wild animal caught in the high beams.

My knees, already numb and shaking from hours of walking in the freezing storm, finally gave out.

I collapsed onto the wet, gravelly driveway right in front of the car's hood. My palms scraped against the sharp stones, but I barely felt the pain. I was too cold. My wet clothes clung to my skin like lead weights, and my teeth chattered so hard my jaw ached.

Through the pouring rain, I heard the heavy thud of a car door opening.

I shielded my eyes from the headlights, expecting a security guard to march over, grab me by my jacket, and throw me back onto the street. Or worse, I expected Julian to step out and laugh at how pathetic I looked.

Instead, a pair of pristine, polished leather shoes stepped onto the wet asphalt. Not a single drop of mud touched them.

The driver quickly scrambled to open a large black umbrella, holding it over the man who had just stepped out of the back seat. But the man didn't seem to care about the storm. He walked with a slow, powerful stride that made the air around him feel heavy and still.

Gideon Mercer.

He wore a tailored charcoal overcoat that made his broad shoulders look even more intimidating. He was easily in his late thirties, possessing the kind of sharp, aristocratic facial features that looked like they had been chiseled out of marble. His dark hair was slicked back, wet from a few stray drops of rain, and his piercing gray eyes locked onto me with absolute, freezing intensity.

There was no warmth in his gaze. No pity. Just a cold, calculating curiosity.

"Fiona Ashford," Gideon said. His voice was a deep, quiet baritone that easily cut through the roar of the thunder above us. "You’re trespassing."

I looked up at him, my vision blurred by the rain dripping from my hair. I looked like a drowned rat, and he looked like a god who ruled the city. The contrast was humiliating, but I had nothing left to lose.

"Mr. Mercer... please," I choked out, my voice cracking. "I have nowhere else to go."

Gideon didn't move. He stood tall, towering over me, his hands resting casually inside his coat pockets. "My nephew's apartment is across town. Why are you on my property?"

"Julian framed me," I said, the words spilling out of my mouth in a desperate rush. "He ruined the painting in the gallery. He turned off the cameras and signed my name on the canvas. He took all my money and locked me out of the apartment. He did all of it, Mr. Mercer. Please, you have to believe me."

Gideon stared down at me. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the heavy drumming of the rain against the umbrella. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look angry. He just studied my face, his gray eyes scanning my shivering frame, my torn clothes, and the raw scrapes on my hands.

"Julian is a weak man," Gideon said softly, stepping closer. The faint, expensive scent of cedarwood and rich leather drifted over me, momentarily blocking out the smell of wet pavement. "And weak men do foolish things to cover their tracks. But why come to me? I am his family. I am the patriarch of the house he represents."

"Because you're the only one he's afraid of," I whispered, my chest heaving as I fought back tears. "You own the gallery. You own the company. If you call the police on me right now, I'm going to prison for a crime I didn't commit. But if you help me... I can prove it was him."

Gideon tilted his head, his gaze dropping to my lips, which were turning a faint shade of blue from the cold. He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean, monogrammed silk handkerchief. He didn't hand it to me. Instead, he leaned down slightly, the dark fabric of his coat brushing against my wet shoulder, and gently wiped a streak of mud from my cheek.

His touch was surprisingly warm, sending a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down my spine.

"You are a very talented art restorer, Fiona," Gideon murmured, his face close enough that I could see the dark, thick lashes framing his cold eyes. "But you are also currently a national scandal. Every news outlet in the city is looking for you. Helping you would be a massive liability for the Mercer name."

He pulled the handkerchief back and stood up to his full height, looking down at me once more.

"I don't do charity," he added, his tone flat and unyielding.

My heart sank into my stomach. The last thread of hope I was holding onto snapped. I closed my eyes, preparing myself to crawl back out onto the street and wait for the police to find me.

But then, the passenger door of the Maybach clicked open.

"However," Gideon’s voice drifted down to me, smoother now, like velvet over steel. "I also do not tolerate idiots ruining my investments. And Julian has become very sloppy."

I opened my eyes and looked up at him.

Gideon stepped aside, gesturing toward the warm, leather-scented interior of the luxury car.

"You want revenge against my nephew, Fiona? Or do you just want a place to hide?" he asked.

I didn't hesitate. I reached out and took his offered hand, letting him pull me up from the freezing ground.

"Both," I said.

Gideon's grip on my hand tightened for a brief second before he guided me inside the dry, quiet cabin of the car and shut the door behind us.