CHAPTER 4

FIONA ASHFORD POV

Living under Gideon Mercer’s roof was like stepping into a beautifully designed, high-security gold cage.

For the past two weeks, my life had settled into a quiet, intense routine. I spent my days in the west wing of his sprawling estate, sorting through his private art collection, cataloging rare oil paintings, and organizing auction files. Gideon was a ghost during the day, running his massive empire from high-rise office buildings across the city, but the moment the sun dipped below the horizon, his presence took over the entire house.

He was a strict, unyielding control freak. He liked his coffee at exactly 180°F, his files organized by date rather than artist name, and his silence respected.

But at night, when the rest of the staff had gone to sleep, the boundaries we built during the day began to fray.

It always started in the library. I would be sitting at the long mahogany table, surrounded by heavy art history books and restoration logs, when he would walk in. He’d loosen his silk tie, pour himself a glass of whiskey, and sit across from me. We would talk—not just about the inventory, but about the brushstrokes of long-dead masters, the hidden meanings behind shadowed canvases, and eventually, the quiet, heavy details of our own lives.

With every late-night conversation, the sheer gravity of him pulled me in a little deeper. He was thirty-eight, commanding, and dangerous. I was twenty-four, rebuilding my life from ashes. It was a line we both knew we shouldn’t cross, yet the air in the library always felt charged with a quiet, suffocating heat whenever he leaned in to look at a file I was holding.

On a rainy Tuesday evening, the peace of our sanctuary was shattered.

I was sitting in the main foyer, cross-checking a delivery manifest for an upcoming gallery showcase, when the heavy oak front doors flew open.

My heart stopped.

"Uncle Gideon!" a familiar, arrogant voice echoed through the high-ceilinged hallway.

Julian.

Panic surged through my veins like ice water. If Julian saw me here, everything we were planning would crash down. He would realize Gideon was shielding me, and he’d run to the press or destroy whatever evidence we were gathering to clear my name.

"Fiona," a calm, firm voice commanded from the top of the stairs.

I looked up. Gideon was standing on the landing, his gray eyes locking onto mine with absolute authority. He tilted his head slightly toward the dark hallway leading to the library.

"Go. Now," he muttered.

I didn't wait. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my tablet to my chest, and practically threw myself into the shadows of the library just as Julian’s heavy footsteps entered the foyer.

I stood right behind the heavy, slightly cracked library door, holding my breath so hard my chest ached. My heart was hammering against my ribs, loud enough that I was terrified they would hear it from the hallway.

"Julian," Gideon’s voice echoed, cold and utterly unimpressed. "I don't recall scheduling an appointment with you this evening."

"I know, Uncle, I'm sorry to just barge in," Julian said, his tone lacking the smug confidence he usually wore around me. He sounded small. Submissive. Like a boy trying not to get beaten by his father. "But the police are breathing down my neck about the gallery audit. They keep asking about the insurance payout for the slashed painting. I need you to sign off on the emergency fund release."

"I am not releasing a single cent of the Mercer trust until the official investigation is complete," Gideon replied, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he descended the stairs. "You claimed Fiona Ashford destroyed the art. The police are searching for her. Until she is in custody and the court makes a ruling, the funds remain locked."

"But Uncle, she's gone! She probably fled the country," Julian argued, his voice growing desperate. "The gallery is losing credibility every day. If we don't announce a recovery plan, the board is going to vote me out."

"Then let them vote you out," Gideon said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. "Perhaps a loss of title will teach you how to manage an estate without losing ten-million-dollar assets on your watch."

"You don't understand, she's—"

Julian’s voice suddenly cut off. Through the tiny crack of the library door, I saw him halt near the bottom of the grand staircase. His eyes weren't on Gideon anymore. They were locked on the small, polished side table right next to the library entrance.

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

Sitting right there on the table was my silver-plated magnifying glass—the one with my initials, F.A., engraved on the handle. I had left it there when I hurried to the foyer earlier.

Julian took a slow step toward the table. His brow furrowed, his eyes widening as he stared at the familiar tool. He reached out and picked it up, turning it over in his hand.

"This is Fiona's," Julian whispered, his voice shaking with a sudden, ugly realization. He looked up, his eyes darting toward the heavy library doors where I was hiding. "Uncle... why is Fiona’s restoration glass in your house?"

My hands began to tremble. I backed away from the door, my heels making no sound on the thick Persian rug, but the sheer terror of being caught made my head spin. He was going to push the door open. He was going to find me.

Before Julian could take another step toward the library, Gideon moved.

With terrifying speed, Gideon stepped directly into Julian’s path, his tall, broad frame completely blocking Julian’s view of the door. He didn't look angry; he looked bored, which somehow made him seem even more dangerous. He reached out and snatched the magnifying glass from Julian’s fingers with a cold, smooth motion.

"I purchased the entire inventory of the Ashford studio after she went missing, Julian," Gideon said, his voice flat and unbothered as he slipped the glass into his pocket. "Her personal tools are now the property of my private collection. I suggest you focus on your failing gallery rather than obsessing over the scraps of a woman you discarded."

Julian stared at his uncle, his jaw tightening. He was sweating, his eyes darting around the grand foyer, searching for any other sign of my presence. The suspicion in his eyes was palpable, but his fear of Gideon was stronger.

"Of course," Julian muttered, swallowing hard as he took a step back toward the front door. "My mistake, Uncle. I'll... I'll let myself out."

The heavy front doors clicked shut, and the silence of the house returned.

I let out a long, shuddering breath, my knees nearly giving out. I leaned against the back of the mahogany sofa, my hand over my heart.

The library doors pushed open, and Gideon walked in. He didn't look shaken at all. He reached into his pocket, pulled out my magnifying glass, and set it gently on the table next to me.

"That was too close," I whispered, looking up at him.

Gideon didn't answer. He walked closer, stopping only inches away from where I stood. He reached out, his warm, rough fingers gently gripping my chin, forcing me to look up into his dark gray eyes.

"He is starting to look for you in the wrong places, Fiona," Gideon murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over my lower lip, sending a jolt of heat straight to my chest. "Which means we need to change the game."