CHAPTER 4: Three Months Ago

*Three months earlier*

The dress didn't fit right.

I tugged at the neckline for the third time, trying to make Simone's borrowed Dior sit properly on my shoulders. It was too tight in the chest and too loose everywhere else. Designer clothes were made for women shaped like coat hangers, not real people.

"Stop fidgeting," Simone hissed in my ear. "You look amazing."

I didn't feel amazing. I felt like an imposter at The Meridian Hotel's annual gallery fundraiser, surrounded by people who belonged here. People who didn't have to borrow dresses or practice their small talk in the mirror.

"I should be working this event, not attending it," I muttered.

"You're networking. That's work." Simone pressed a champagne flute into my hand. "Smile. Mingle. Pretend you're having fun."

She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone near a column. The ballroom was packed. Diamonds everywhere. Tuxedos. Laughter that sounded like money. I sipped my champagne and tried to look comfortable.

"Nora Sutherland, isn't it?"

I turned. A man in his fifties stood there, smiling. Silver hair. Expensive watch. I didn't recognize him.

"Yes. Have we met?"

"Harold Holbrook. I'm a collector. I've seen your work at the Pemberton Gallery." He gestured to a waiter passing with a tray of drinks. "Care for something stronger? The champagne here is terrible."

I glanced at my half-empty glass. He wasn't wrong. "Sure. Thank you."

He handed me what looked like whiskey in a crystal tumbler. I took a polite sip. It burned going down but tasted expensive.

"I've been thinking about commissioning an authentication," Harold said. "I recently acquired a piece I'd like verified. Would you be interested?"

"Of course. You can contact me through the gallery."

"Excellent." He smiled wider. "I'll be in touch."

He moved on to another group. I finished the whiskey faster than I should have, the warmth spreading through my chest. At least I had one potential client out of this torture.

I made it through another twenty minutes of small talk. Another drink appeared in my hand at some point. I didn't remember accepting it, but I drank it anyway because standing there empty-handed felt awkward.

That's when the room started tilting.

Not a lot. Just enough to make me grab a table for balance. My head felt fuzzy. Heavy. Like someone had wrapped cotton around my brain.

"You okay, miss?" A waiter stopped beside me.

"Fine. Just need some air."

I pushed through the crowd toward the exit. The hallway was quieter but the floor kept moving under my feet. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I'd only had two drinks. Maybe three.

The elevators. I needed to get to my room. Call Simone. Lie down.

I stumbled toward the elevator bank. My purse slipped off my shoulder. I bent to pick it up and nearly fell.

"Whoa, easy."

A hand caught my elbow. Steadied me. I looked up into concerned blue eyes.

He was tall. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Wearing a suit that actually fit him properly, unlike everyone else's designer costumes.

"Are you alright?" His voice was deep. Worried.

"I don't... something's wrong." The words came out slurred. "I need to get to my room."

His eyes narrowed. Scanned the hallway behind me. "Did someone give you a drink?"

"I'm not drunk." But even as I said it, I knew that wasn't true. Except I shouldn't be this drunk. Not from two glasses of champagne and one whiskey.

"What's your room number?"

I tried to remember. The numbers wouldn't come. "I can't... I don't..."

"Okay. It's okay." His grip on my elbow tightened. Protective. "I'm going to help you. You're safe."

Safe. The word echoed in my fuzzy brain. I didn't feel safe. I felt like I was drowning.

He guided me into the elevator. Pressed a button. The doors closed and the small space made everything worse. I swayed and his arm went around my waist, holding me up.

"Your hand," I mumbled. There was a wound across his right hand. Old. White against tanned skin. "You're bleeding."

"Old injury. Don't worry about me."

The elevator opened. He half-carried me down a hallway. A door opened. A hotel room. Not mine. The walls were the wrong color.

Panic spiked through the fog. "This isn't..."

"I know. I'm just getting you somewhere safe while I call someone for you." He eased me onto the bed. Gentle. Careful. "Who should I call? Do you have a friend here?"

"Simone." I fumbled for my purse but my hands wouldn't work right.

He found my phone. Unlocked it somehow. I heard him talking but the words were distant. Underwater.

"Your friend isn't answering. I'm going to call the front desk. Get you some help."

"Don't leave." The words came out desperate. Pathetic. But I couldn't be alone. Not like this.

He crouched in front of me. Those blue eyes were so kind. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Time got weird after that. Fragments. Pieces. His voice, steady and calm, telling me I was going to be okay. His hand brushing hair from my face. The mattress shifting as he sat beside me.

"What's your name?" I asked. Or thought I asked. Everything was so fuzzy.

"Griffin."

Griffin. I tried to hold onto that. Tried to remember.

"Thank you for... for helping me."

"Of course." His hand found mine. Squeezed gently. "Just rest. I've got you."

I believed him. That was the strangest part. I didn't know this man. But sitting there in a hotel room, barely conscious, I believed him completely.

At some point I pulled him closer. I think. The memories were scattered like broken glass. His warmth beside me. The solid weight of him. Safe.

"Don't leave me alone," I whispered.

"I won't."

More fragments. His thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. His jacket draped over my shoulders. The sound of his breathing, steady and even.

Then nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was streaming through unfamiliar windows. My head pounded. My mouth tasted like cotton. I was still wearing Simone's dress, but someone had taken off my shoes and covered me with a blanket.

I sat up too fast. The room spun. This wasn't my hotel room. The memories crashed back. The fundraiser. The drinks. Feeling wrong. And him.

Griffin.

I looked around frantically. Empty. The room was empty. Just me and a note on the nightstand, written on hotel stationery.

*You were in danger. I made sure you were safe. I hope you're okay. - G*

I stared at the note. Tried to remember more. But there was nothing after those fragmented pieces. Just blank space where hours should have been.

My phone showed six missed calls from Simone and twelve texts asking where I was. The last one was from an hour ago: *Please tell me you're alive.*

I called her. She answered before the first ring finished.

"Where the hell are you?"

"I'm... I don't know. A hotel room. Not mine." My voice cracked. "Simone, I think someone drugged me."

Silence. Then: "I'm coming to get you. Don't move."

She found me twenty minutes later. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, still holding that note.

"What happened?" She sat beside me, her hand on my back.

"I don't remember. Most of it's just gone." I told her about the drinks. The collector who'd been too friendly. The stranger who'd helped me.

"Did he..." She couldn't finish the question.

"No. I don't think so. I'm still dressed. And the note..." I showed it to her.

Simone read it twice. "He could have just left you. Most people would have."

But he hadn't. He'd stayed. Kept me safe. Made sure I wasn't alone.

"I need to find him," I said. "Thank him."

"Do you even know his last name?"

I looked at the note again. Just the initial. G.

"No."

For weeks after that night, I looked for him. Searched the hotel's event photos. Asked around at galleries. But I never found any trace of Griffin with the blue eyes and the scarred hand.

Eventually, I stopped looking. Filed it away as a strange, terrifying night I'd been lucky to survive.

I never imagined I'd see those eyes again.

Not until three months later, when they walked into Warren Marlowe's conference room and looked at me like I was a ghost.