Chapter 4

The following week was a whirlwind of logistics. Coordinating with high- strung artists, impatient gallery owners, and the immovable object that was Marcus Thorne. Every delivery, every installation time, had to be cleared through him. Our interactions were brief and conducted entirely over the phone, his voice a flat, distrustful monotone.

“The Takashi photograph requires specific lighting. My technician will be there at 3:00 p.m. on Tuesday.”

“I’ll have a man there.”

“The sandstone sculpture is fragile. The installers need a clear path and a stable temperature.”

“Noted.”

He was a man of few words, each one chosen to convey the minimum required information. I knew he was digging, running a deeper background check than the one I’d so carefully planted. I had to be flawless.

The day of the first installation arrived. I was in the penthouse, directing two burly movers as they carefully positioned the massive, framed photograph. The door opened and Damien walked in.

He stopped just inside the doorway, observing the controlled chaos. He was in his element here, in a suit, the authority clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes swept over the room, then landed on me.

“Ms. Vance.”

“Mr. Sterling.” I gave him a brief, professional nod before turning back to the movers. “A little to the left. Yes, perfect. Just there.”

I could feel his gaze on my back as I worked. It was different from the first time—less analytical, more... observant. I was no longer just a curiosity; I was a force operating within his domain.

Once the movers left, the photograph hung in perfect

alignment on the vast wall, he walked over to examine it. It was a stark, black-and-white image of a geyser frozen mid-eruption, a powerful explosion of water and force captured and silenced.

“It’s controlled chaos,” I said, coming to stand beside him. “The power is undeniable, but it’s been framed, contained. Just as you requested.”

He didn’t look at the photograph. He looked at me. “You’re very good at this.”

“It’s my job.”

“Is it?” he asked, the question deceptively soft. “Or is curating art just another way of curating a persona?”

The air left my lungs. It was too close to the truth. I kept my expression neutral, a slight, puzzled frown creasing my brow. “I’m not sure I follow. A persona for whom?”

He held my gaze for a moment

longer, then finally turned back to the photograph. “Forget it.” He gestured around the room, where several other pieces now stood, leaning against walls. “How long until it’s finished?”

“Another week. Maybe two. It’s a process. It can’t be rushed.”

“I don’t like loose ends,” he said, his voice hardening. “I don’t like unfinished business.”

A thread of cold dread wound its way around my spine. Was he talking about the art? Or about me?

“Some things are worth the wait,” I replied, my voice steady. “Instant gratification is rarely satisfying.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Is that so?”

The door opened again, and Marcus Thorne walked in. He stopped short when he saw Damien, his eyes flicking from his boss to me with a sharp, assessing glance.

“Sir. The car is ready for the airport. You have the summit in Dubai.”

“I’m aware, Marcus.” Damien’s tone was dismissive. He turned back to me. “I’ll be gone for a week. I trust you can manage without causing any more accidental spills?”

The reference to our first meeting was deliberate, a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten, that the puzzle of me was still very much on his mind.

“I’ll do my best,” I said, a small, defiant smile playing on my lips.

He gave a curt nod, then followed Marcus out the door, leaving me alone in the half-finished penthouse.

The silence they left behind was profound. I walked to the window, looking down at the ant-like cars far below. A week. He would be gone for a week. It was an opportunity. A risk.

I pulled out my phone and called Elena.

“He’s leaving for Dubai. For a week.” “Okay... so? Breathe. Regroup.”

“No,” I said, my voice low and determined. “This is the time. He’s letting me be here, unsupervised. His security will be focused on the travel details. It’s the best chance I’ll get.”

“Get for what?” Lena’s voice was wary. “Sarah, no. That’s too dangerous. Thorne will have the place wired.”

“I’m not going to steal anything. I’m just going to look. A man like him... he has to have secrets. A safe. A locked drawer. Something he doesn’t put in the cloud.”

“This is a massive escalation. If you’re caught—”

“I won’t be,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “I belong here now. I’m the art curator.”

I spent the next few days playing

my part perfectly. I oversaw the installation of the other pieces, including the lonely shoreline painting, which I hung in a quieter corridor leading to the master suite. I was the picture of professional efficiency.

On the fifth day of Damien’s trip, with all the major installations complete, I told the building management I would be doing a final, detailed inventory and light cleaning of the art pieces. It was a plausible excuse.

My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs as I let myself back into the penthouse. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the now-furnished space. It was still minimalist, still cold, but the art gave it a pulse, a personality. My personality.

I started in the study, a room I had only briefly been in before. It was as sterile as the rest of the place. A monolithic desk, a single chair, a large monitor. I ran my hands along the underside of the drawers,

feeling for a key or a latch. Nothing.

I checked behind the monitor, under the desk. My fingers brushed against a small, almost invisible seam on the side of one of the desk legs. I pressed it. A soft click. A small, narrow drawer silently slid open from the side of the desk.

Inside, there was no stack of incriminating documents. No ledger of his sins against my father. There was only a single, faded photograph.

I picked it up. It was a picture of a younger Damien, probably in his late teens. He had his arm around a middle-aged man with a kind, weary smile. The man had Damien’s eyes. His father. They were standing in front of a small, run-down auto shop. *Sterling & Son.*

On the back, in a looping, feminine handwriting, was an inscription. *For Robert, who believed we could build anything. All my love, Grace.*

Robert. Grace.

My hands began to shake. These weren’t the names of corporate rivals or faceless enemies. These were people. A family. This wasn’t a trophy of a conquest; it was a relic of a past he had clearly left behind. A past he kept hidden in a secret drawer.

This was not the damning evidence I sought. This was a complication. A human being I had sworn not to see.

The sharp sound of a key turning in the penthouse front door shattered the silence.

My blood ran cold. It was too early. He wasn’t due back for two more days.

I shoved the photograph back into the hidden drawer, pressing the seam to close it just as the front door swung open.

I stood up, smoothing my dress, trying to look as if I’d been admiring the view from his study window.

Damien Sterling stood in the doorway, his suitcase beside him, his expression thunderous. His trip was clearly over. And he was not expecting to find me here.

His eyes, dark and furious, locked onto mine.

“What,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “are you doing in my study ?