Chapter 3

Three days before the engagement.

Before I left New York, I had one final design review.

If I won, I'd be named lead architect for the city's new museum. If I lost, I couldn't compete for that title again for three years.

The committee required the original presentation model.

That model was in the truck behind me.

As our convoy left Manhattan, he called.

"You're on the road?"

"Heading to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The final review is today."

"What time are you done?"

"Three."

"I'll pick you up."

Once, those four words would've been enough to soften me. I would've forgiven him for leaving with Serena in the middle of the night and convinced myself I still mattered.

"I'll wait," I said.

The line went quiet for a beat, then his voice warmed. "Don't leave after the review. I had the chef make your pear tart. Serena is coming too. She wants to apologize for the compass in person."

"All right."

He gave a low, pleased laugh. "I like this version of you, Evie. Once we're engaged, maybe we can finally stop wasting our time on pointless fights."

I watched the East River slide past the window.

He was right about one thing. In three days, we would never fight again.

He simply didn't know it was because he would never get another chance.

Our vehicles had just reached the Williamsburg Bridge when an engine screamed behind us.

The driver checked the mirror and swore. "Someone's running us down."

A white Maserati cut across the right lane and flashed its headlights. I recognized the plate.

Serena.

Her front bumper slammed into the rear side of our SUV.

The armored vehicle fishtailed, smashed through a divider, and spun halfway across the bridge. Behind us, the transport truck struck the concrete barrier. Titanium restraints snapped with a sound like gunfire.

I managed to cover my head before the air bag exploded.

White powder, glass, and screaming metal swallowed the world.

When I opened my eyes, the window beside me was gone. My left shoulder felt torn from its socket. Each breath drove a blade beneath my ribs, and blood from my temple blurred one eye.

Our driver was conscious but trapped against the steering column. He couldn't move his right leg.

I hit the emergency call button before releasing my belt.

The truck's rear doors had burst open. Cathedral lay in pieces across the road.

I stood in the freezing wind and looked at it for three seconds.

I called my project director. "Send the digital files and ask for twenty minutes."

"Without the model, they won't hear us."

"Ask anyway."

I ended the call, contacted the police, and requested immediate preservation of all dashcam footage.

Serena stumbled out of the Maserati. She had a cut on her forehead, and blood soaked the sleeve of her pale coat.

"Evelyn, I did this." She rushed toward me, trembling. "Damian said you wouldn't see me. I only wanted to catch up and explain. My phone fell, and I looked down for one second..."

"Don't touch anything."

When the first officer reached us, I cut off her excuses. "She was driving the rear vehicle. I can provide our dashcam footage, insurance files, and bridge surveillance. I want this investigated as reckless driving."

Serena went white. "You can't. The season starts next month. A reckless-driving charge will cost me my racing license."

"That's for the police to handle."

She grabbed for my document case. I moved it away, and her arm caught a jagged strip of metal. The wound split wider, sending fresh blood down her sleeve.

The paramedics rushed to stop the bleeding.

A black sedan braked hard beside the wreck. Damian was out before it fully stopped.

He saw me first.

His expression changed as he crossed the bridge, cupped my jaw, and forced my gaze to his. "Look at me. Are you nauseous? Can you hear me clearly?"

"My ribs may be fractured, and my left shoulder is dislocated. The driver's right leg is injured."

I gave him facts, nothing more.

His fingers trembled once. He opened his mouth to call for a doctor, but Serena's weak voice came from behind him.

"Damian..."

He turned. The sight of her blood-soaked sleeve made him strip off his coat and clamp it over the wound.

Damian caught her wrist. "Where's your medication?"

She sobbed and shook her head.

A paramedic looked at him. "We need to move. Now."

An officer approached us and asked whether we wanted a criminal investigation opened.

Still pressing the coat to Serena's arm, Damian answered almost at once. "Treat it as a standard traffic collision for now. My attorneys will cover all damages."

"I don't agree."

His gaze snapped to mine. "Serena won't stop bleeding."

"Then go with her. The police can keep working."

"Evelyn." His voice sharpened. "This isn't the time to prove who is right."

"I'm not proving anything. I'm protecting my driver, my team, and my project."

I stopped explaining and let a paramedic secure my shoulder.

Damian looked ready to block me, but Serena began gasping on the stretcher and the monitor alarmed. He followed her instead.

Before climbing into the ambulance, he looked back. "Stay and give your statement. When Serena is stable, I'll go with you to the committee and explain what happened."

Once, I would've told him the committee wouldn't wait and that an opportunity couldn't be restored by one of his promises.

This time, I only said, "Understood."

He stared at me, caught off guard by how easily I accepted his decision. Then the tension in his face eased.

"Don't try to be tough. Let the doctors examine you."

The ambulance doors closed between us.

Damian sat beside Serena and never looked back again.

Twenty-seven minutes later, my phone lit up.

[The museum commission has been awarded to another firm. Under the competition rules, Vale Studio may reapply in three years.]

Three years.

I read it once and handed the phone to the officer.

Then I gave my statement.