Chapter Two

The list has four things on it by the time I've finished the coffee.

One. Move money somewhere Celeste can't touch and my father can't "manage" for me. Two. Buy the Route 9 warehouse district before anyone else understands why it matters. Three. Find out exactly when the first case gets reported, because I know it happens but I don't know the date down to the day, and a day is going to matter more than anyone alive right now understands. Four. Stay close enough to Julian and Celeste that I see it coming before it happens again, instead of finding out through a pane of glass.

I get dressed. I go downstairs. I walk into my father's study without knocking, which I never do, and he looks up from his desk like I've grown a second head.

"I want to talk about the trust," I say.

"Good morning to you too." He sets down his pen. Richard Sterling has the kind of face that's spent thirty years deciding what other people are allowed to see on it, and right now what he's allowing is mild, indulgent confusion. "What trust?"

"Mine. The one that transfers to me on my wedding day. I want it moved into an account Julian's family has no visibility into, and I want it done before the ceremony, not after."

"Ivy." He says my name the way you'd say it to a child who's just announced she wants to marry the family dog. "That trust is structured the way it's structured because the merger requires certain assurances. If you start moving money around three months before your wedding, it looks like you don't trust the Ashfords."

"I don't."

That gets a real reaction, at least. His eyebrows go up.

"You've never said that before."

"I'm saying it now." I sit down across from him without being asked, which I also never do. "I want the warehouse district on Route 9 too. All of it, if it's still available. I'll use my own money if you won't authorize the company's."

"The industrial lots? Ivy, that land's been sitting empty for a decade because it's worthless. What in God's name would you want with a warehouse district?"

I look at him for a second too long, the way I looked at Celeste this morning, because I keep forgetting that these people don't know yet what I know, that from where they're sitting I'm just their daughter having an unusually strange morning.

"Call it a hobby," I say. "Humor me."

He doesn't. He tells me he'll think about the trust, which means no, and that the warehouses are a waste of a conversation, which also means no, and I leave his study understanding that I am going to have to do this myself, with my own money, without my father's blessing or his company's leverage.

Which is how I end up, an hour later, standing in the lobby of a title office downtown that handles exactly the kind of unglamorous industrial real estate nobody in my family has looked at twice in ten years.

And that is how I meet Damian Vale for the first time in this life, six days before either of us has any idea we'll need each other.

He's at the counter ahead of me, and I almost don't register him at all — dark coat, dark hair, the kind of stillness some men have that reads as either very calm or very dangerous, and I've spent enough of my life around men who perform calm to know the difference. This isn't performance.

"—all four parcels," he's saying to the clerk. "Not three. I was explicit about that on the phone."

"Sir, parcel four's already got interest from another buyer, I'm real sorry, it came in about an hour ago—"

"Whose interest."

The clerk's eyes flick toward me before he can stop them, and I understand two things at the exact same moment, one right after the other like dominoes. The first is that the interest party is me — my assistant filed the paperwork this morning while I was still arguing with my father. The second is that the four parcels on Route 9 that this stranger wants, all of them, no substitutions, are the exact four parcels on my list.

He turns around.

I don't know what I expect. I've imagined this moment exactly zero times, because six hours ago I didn't know this man existed. What I get is a face that's doing the same math I just did, watching it land the same way, and for one long second neither of us says anything at all.

"You're the interested party," he says. Not a question.

"Apparently."

"On parcel four."

"On all four, actually. I filed this morning."

Something shifts behind his eyes — not surprise exactly, something colder and more useful than surprise, like a man recalculating a bet he thought he'd already won. "That's an unusual thing for a Sterling to be doing with her Tuesday."

"I don't remember telling you my name."

"You didn't have to." He nods toward the counter, where the clerk is very studiously pretending not to listen. "There's a photograph of your engagement announcement on the society page of this morning's paper. I read the paper."

I should feel exposed by that. Instead I feel something sharper, something closer to recognition, because a man who reads the society page for information instead of gossip is a man doing exactly what I've spent this morning doing — treating the ordinary surface of the world like it's covering something else.

"Why do you want four empty warehouses nobody's touched in a decade," I say.

"Why do you."

"I asked first."

The corner of his mouth moves, not quite a smile. "Ms. Sterling. I don't discuss business with strangers in title office lobbies."

"Then it's a good thing we won't be strangers for very long. I'm about to outbid you."

That gets the almost-smile to finish the job. "You could try."

"I will."

"Then I suppose," he says, already turning back to the counter, already dismissing me with the particular ease of a man who's decided the conversation is over when he says it's over, "we'll see who understood what those parcels were worth first."

I watch him hand the clerk a card, watch the clerk's whole posture change the way people's postures change around a certain kind of money, and I feel the ground under this morning tilt sideways.

I came here today because I remember what happens on Route 9 in four months, when the collapse cuts every supply road east of the river except the one that runs straight through those warehouses. I came here because I have information nobody alive is supposed to have.

He came here today too.

Which means either Damian Vale knows something he shouldn't, exactly the way I do — or he's about to become the very first person, in this life or the last one, standing directly between me and the one advantage I thought was mine alone.

"Ms. Sterling," the clerk says weakly, "did you want to place your bid now, or—"

I don't take my eyes off the back of Damian Vale's coat as he walks toward the door.

"Now," I say. "All four parcels. Whatever he offered, double it."

He stops in the doorway. Doesn't turn around. But I see his shoulders go still in a way that tells me he heard exactly what I said, and exactly what it means, and that this is very much not the last conversation we're going to have about Route 9.