Chapter 4:The observation

The next three days were a lesson in how to watch a man drown without jumping in to save him.

I stayed in my apartment, keeping the lights low and the door locked. Marcus called me thirty-two times. He sent texts that went from sweet and worried to angry and demanding, then back to sweet again. In my first life, I would have been crying by the third call, apologizing for making him wait. Now, I just watched my phone light up on the kitchen counter like a dying star.

On Friday morning, I finally picked up.

"Clara! God, finally!" Marcus sounded like he hadn't slept. His voice was jagged. "I’ve been coming by your place, but the doorman won't let me up. What is going on? We need to talk about the bank. I found a guy who can help us skip the audit."

I leaned back against my headboard, filing my nails. I felt a cold, dark thrill at the desperation in his voice. "I told you, Marcus. I’m stressed. The lawyers told me not to talk to anyone about the finances until it’s cleared."

"I'm not 'anyone,' Clara! I’m your boyfriend!" he shouted. I heard something shatter in the background on his end—probably a glass. "Listen, I need you to meet me at the park. Now. Just for ten minutes."

"Fine," I said softly. "The fountain. In an hour."

I didn't dress like the girl he knew. Usually, I wore soft pinks and pastels, things that made me look young and easy to handle. Today, I put on a sharp, black tailored coat and dark sunglasses. I looked like a woman going to a funeral. His.

I got to the park early and sat on a bench hidden behind some thick hedges. I wanted to see him before he saw me. I wanted to see the man behind the mask.

Marcus arrived five minutes later. He didn't see me. He was pacing back and forth by the fountain, his face twisted into a scowl that made him look ten years older. He was biting his nails, his eyes darting around like a cornered animal.

Then, his phone rang. He snapped it open.

"I know, I know!" he yelled into the phone. "The girl is being difficult! I don't know what happened, she just snapped. Just tell the landlord we’ll have the money by Monday. I’ll fix it. I always fix it."

He paused, listening. His face went red. "Don't you dare talk to me like that, Sienna! You’re the one who said this would be easy. You said she was a pushover. Well, your 'pushover' is locking me out!"

I sat frozen, the cold air hitting my face. Even though I knew they were working together, hearing him say it—hearing him call me a pushover to her—felt like a slap. My heart hurt for the girl I used to be. She had loved him so much, and he had looked at her like a chore.

Marcus hung up and kicked a trash can, a loud metallic bang echoing through the quiet park. He looked ugly. Not in his face, but in his soul.

I stood up and walked out from behind the bushes. "Marcus?"

He spun around, and in a second, the mask was back. His face smoothed out, his eyes went soft, and he rushed toward me. "Clara! Babe, I was so worried."

He tried to grab my hands, but I kept them buried deep in my coat pockets. "I heard you yelling, Marcus. Who were you talking to?"

He didn't even flinch. "Just a contractor for the office. They're being pushy. You know how it is. But forget that—did you talk to the bank? Is there any way to get a bridge loan?"

I watched him. I watched the way his eyes searched mine for a sign of weakness. He didn't care that I looked pale. He didn't care that I was clearly upset. He just wanted to know where his money was.

"No loan," I said. "And the audit might actually take longer than a month. They found some inconsistencies in how you handled the last gift I gave you."

That was a lie, but it hit him like a bullet. Marcus stepped back, his mouth hanging open. "What? That’s... that’s impossible. I handled that perfectly."

"Did you?" I asked, stepping closer. I let a little bit of my coldness show. "Because the bank thinks it looks a lot like money laundering, Marcus. They're asking a lot of questions about where that fifty thousand went."

"I... I can explain that," he stuttered. He was sweating now, despite the cold. "Clara, you have to tell them it was a mistake. If they dig into my past, it could ruin the startup before it even starts!"

"I'll see what I can do," I said, my voice empty. "But for now, I think we need a break. I can't be seen with you while they're investigating my accounts. It looks bad for the estate."

"A break?" Marcus grabbed my arm, his grip tight and painful. "You can't be serious. Now? When I need you most?"

"You're hurting me, Marcus," I said, looking down at his hand.

He let go immediately, his eyes wide with fear—not fear for me, but fear that he had pushed too far. "I'm sorry. I'm just... I'm spiraling, Clara. Please. Don't leave me like this."

"I have to go," I said. I turned and walked away, feeling his eyes burning into my back.

I didn't go home. I took a taxi to the other side of the city, to a small, private boutique that only opened for people with a certain last name. I had an appointment.

Tonight was the Thorne Auction.

I spent three hours getting ready. I chose a dress the color of a dark forest—deep, shimmering emerald silk that clung to my body like a second skin. I did my makeup sharp, my lips a deep red, my eyes dark and smoky. I didn't look like a girl anymore.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw the woman who was going to win.

I arrived at the auction house just as the sun was setting. The building was a palace of glass and steel, guarded by men in black suits with earpieces. I handed my invitation to the man at the door. He looked at the name and bowed slightly.

"Welcome, Miss Vane."

I stepped inside. The room was filled with the smell of expensive perfume and old money. And there, standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of people who looked terrified to speak to him, was Alistair Thorne.

He was taller than I remembered. His hair was black as coal, and his suit was so sharp it looked like it could cut. He wasn't talking. He was just listening, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking for its next meal.

He looked up and his eyes met mine.

For a second, the whole room went silent. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He just looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. He knew I didn't belong here. And he knew I was there for him.

I picked up a glass of champagne from a passing tray and took a sip. The game was about to get very dangerous.