Chapter 2

The tremor in my hands didn't subside until the taxi was three blocks away from the gala. I pressed my palms flat against the cool leather seat, forcing a calm I didn't feel into my bones. Sarah was screaming in the back of my skull, a frantic chorus of *what have you done?* I closed my eyes and pictured my father's face, the hollow defeat in his eyes. The fear receded, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

The phone in my clutch buzzed. Elena.

I answered, holding the device to my ear. "Well?"

"Okay, first of all, you're insane."

Her voice was a mix of awe and terror. "Secondly, my contact inside just texted. He's asking about you. Sterling. He just pulled out your card and asked his assistant, 'Who is Aria Vance?' You're in."

A sliver of icy satisfaction cut through the lingering anxiety. "Good. That was the point."

"The point was to get his attention, not to pour champagne on him and sass him in front of the entire city elite! I was watching from the service entrance. I thought his head was going to explode."

"He's a man who is never challenged, Lena. Sycophants are a dime a dozen. A woman who isn't afraid of him? That's a novelty." I repeated the mantra I'd been reciting for months. "Novelties are memorable."

"Right. Well, this novelty has his attention. What's the next move? He's not just going to call you up for a date."

"No," I agreed, watching the city lights blur past the window. "He'll investigate. He'll have his people tear my identity apart. And they'll find exactly what we've built for them. Aria Vance, independent art consultant, recently returned from a successful stint in Europe, parents deceased, no entanglements, impeccably curated, and just mysterious enough to be interesting."

"And then?"

"And then we wait. He'll come to me. A man like him can't stand an unsolved puzzle."

I spent the next forty-eight hours in a state of suspended animation. Every nerve ending was live, waiting for a sign. I cleaned my already- spotless apartment, rearranged my closet by color, and tried to read a book, the words swimming meaninglessly in front of my eyes. The silence of my phone felt like a judgment.

Had I overplayed my hand? Was my

defiance too much? Maybe he'd just written me off as an eccentric fool and thrown the card away.

The doubt was a corrosive acid. This entire plan, this years-long transformation, hinged on that single, three-minute interaction. The arrogance of it suddenly seemed breathtaking.

On the morning of the third day, as I was forcing down a piece of dry toast, my personal cell phone rang. The number was unknown, but it had the distinct, weighty feel of a high-end corporate line.

Aria Vance's phone. Not Sarah's.

I let it ring three times, steadying my breath, letting the mask settle fully into place.

"This is Aria," I answered, my voice cool and melodic.

"Ms. Vance." The voice on the other end was male, crisp, and utterly devoid of warmth. Not him. "This is Marcus Thorne, head of security for

Mr. Damien Sterling."

Marcus Thorne. I'd done my homework. Ex-special forces, fiercely loyal, dangerously perceptive. The first real gatekeeper.

"Mr. Thorne," I said, allowing a hint of polite curiosity. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Sterling has a proposition for you. He would like to commission your services."

I paused, letting the silence hang for a beat. "My services are primarily in art acquisition and curation. I wasn't aware Mr. Sterling had a personal collection."

"He's starting one. He was impressed by your... forthrightness at the gala. He believes you have an eye for unique pieces."

The subtext was as clear as glass. He's intrigued. And he's testing you.

"I see. And what is the nature of this commission?"

"He has acquired a new property. A penthouse. The walls are bare. He'd like you to fill them. A complete curation. Your budget is discretionary, within reason."

My mind raced. This was better than I'd hoped. Direct access to his inner sanctum. A chance to weave myself into the fabric of his daily life.

"It's a significant project," I said, careful not to sound too eager. "I'd need to see the space. Understand the light, the architecture."

"Mr. Sterling is available to show you the property this afternoon at four. Does that work for your schedule?"

As if I had a choice. As if I had anything else on my schedule but this.

"This afternoon at four is perfect," I replied, my voice steady. "Please

text the address to this number."

"Done. He'll meet you there." The line went dead.

I lowered the phone, my heart thumping a wild, triumphant rhythm against my ribs. Phase one was complete. He had taken the bait.

Now, I was walking into the lion's den.

***

The address was a newly constructed tower that pierced the sky, a monument of steel and glass. The lobby was a vast, silent expanse of marble, guarded by a concierge who looked more like a secret service agent. At my name, he gave a curt nod and directed me to a private elevator with a single button: PH.

The ascent was silent and swift. When the doors slid open, I stepped directly into the sky.

The penthouse was breathtaking. A

vast, open-plan space with floor-to- ceiling windows offering a panoramic, dizzying view of the city. It was all clean lines, polished concrete floors, and minimalist elegance. And it was utterly, starkly empty. It felt less like a home and more like a museum exhibit titled "The Lonely Billionaire."

He was standing with his back to me, looking out at the urban sprawl, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark trousers. He’d discarded his suit jacket, and his white dress shirt, now clean of champagne, was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing strong, corded forearms.

He turned as he heard my footsteps. In the harsh, honest light of day, he was even more formidable. The gala’s ambient lighting had softened him. Here, there were no shadows to hide in. The lines of his face were sharp, his jaw set, and his gray eyes were like chips of flint, scanning me with an unnerving intensity.

"Ms. Vance." He didn't smile.

"Mr. Sterling." I matched his tone, my gaze not wavering from his. "Thank you for the opportunity."

He gestured vaguely at the vast, empty space around us. "As you can see, it's a blank canvas. I'll be entertaining important clients here. I need it to project a certain... image."

"And what image is that?" I asked, walking past him to run my fingers along the cool glass of the window. "Power? Success? You already have that. The building has your name on it." I turned to face him. "Or are you looking for something else? Sophistication? A soul?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I'm looking for art. Not a psychoanalysis."

"Art is psychoanalysis," I countered softly, holding his gaze. "The art a person chooses reveals everything they lack, everything they desire, everything they fear. You're not just hiring me to pick pretty pictures.

You're hiring me to tell a story about you. I need to know what story you want told."

He was silent for a long moment, just watching me. I could feel the weight of his scrutiny, like a physical pressure. He was trying to figure me out, to find the crack in the facade.

"You're very direct," he said finally.

"You hired me because I was direct. Would you prefer I simper and agree with everything you say? I assume you have plenty of people who do that."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was gone in a second. "No. I don't." He walked further into the room, his shoes echoing on the hard floor. "The story... is one of control. Of discernment. Of a power that is quiet, not loud."

I nodded slowly, as if considering his words. Inside, I was cataloging everything. The utter lack of

personal items. The sterile perfection. This wasn't a home; it was a fortress. A man who owned the world but had no place in it that felt like his own.

"I understand," I said. "No loud, abstract explosions of color. Nothing sentimental. We're looking for pieces with precision. A calculated beauty. Something with a sharp edge."

His eyes met mine again, and that spark of curiosity was back, brighter this time. "Yes. A calculated beauty. Exactly."

We spent the next hour walking through the empty rooms. I asked clinical questions about sight lines, about the times of day he'd most use each room, about the materials of the furniture he planned to acquire. He gave short, precise answers. It was a professional dance, but the air between us was charged, a live wire of unspoken challenge and attraction.

As we concluded in the vast living

room, I turned to him. "I'll have a preliminary proposal and a selection of initial pieces for your review by the end of the week."

He just nodded, his hands back in his pockets. "See that you do."

It was a dismissal. I was being evaluated, and for now, the evaluation was over.

I walked to the elevator and pressed the call button. The doors slid open instantly.

"Ms. Vance."

I paused, one foot inside the elevator, and looked back at him. He was still standing in the center of that vast, empty space, a solitary king in a glass castle.

"The champagne," he said, his voice low. "Was it really an accident?"

The question hung in the air between us, a trap disguised as curiosity. Every instinct screamed to

lie, to uphold the fragile fiction.

I met his gaze, allowing a slow, deliberate smile to curve my lips— the first real one I'd given him. It wasn't a smile of warmth, but of shared conspiracy.

"Mr. Sterling," I said softly as the elevator doors began to close, separating us. "What do you think?"

The last thing I saw was the look in his eyes—not anger, but a blazing, intense fascination. The doors shut, and I was plunged into silence, my heart hammering. I had done it. I was in.

And the game had just become infinitely more dangerous