Chapter 2

E L A R A

Julian Hartmann.

The name alone would make my father's jaw clench. Our families had been enemies for as long as I could remember, something about my grandfather and his, a business deal that collapsed and a friendship that never recovered.

I don't know.

The details are fuzzy, but the hatred was very clear.

If I wanted someone Father couldn't control, someone powerful enough to protect me, someone Father would hate...

I know it's insane.

Completely insane.

But as I stared at Julian Hartmann's photo in the article, his ice-blue eyes, sharp jawline, the hint of a sardonic smile, I remembered something.

A debate, from years ago.

Seven years ago, when I was finishing my MBA at Columbia, he had been a guest lecturer, though I had no idea of who he was at the time.

We had debated on corporate ethics and responsibility, I challenged every point he made, and he challenged right back, and for the first time in my life, someone had treated my ideas like they mattered.

At the end, he said something that stuck with me, "The only thing more dangerous than a bad idea is a good idea in the wrong hands, Ms. Vance."

He'd known who I was, even then.

I opened my laptop again, my hands steadier now, have a plan, it's a crazy, desperate, probably doomed to fail plan, but it was mine.

I typed into the search bar, Julian Hartmann contact information.

***

I survived the dress fitting by sheer goodwill, standing still while the seamstress pinned and tucked, while Mother and Mrs. Blackwell discussed flower arrangements and seating charts like I wasn't even there, like I was a mannequin, and not a person.

Senator Blackwell showed up halfway through, all silver hair and practiced charm, his hand lingering too long on my waist when he greeted me.

I wanted to flinch away but held perfectly still, counting the seconds until he left.

Sixty-three years old.

Thirty-six years older than me.

Ugh, Disgusting.

When it was finally over, I faked a headache and escaped to my car, ignoring my Mother's protests that we were supposed to have lunch with the wedding planner.

I drove aimlessly for an hour, trying to build up the courage for what I was about to do. Finally, I parked near Central Park and pulled out my phone.

I had found three possible ways to contact Julian Hartmann, one path led through his office, though someone may always filter his incoming calls. Messages sent by email might vanish without a trace. Then there was another lead, something I uncovered while digging deeper. His name appeared on a guest list for an event at the Harrison Gallery, set for Friday night.

Invitation only.

I wasn't invited.

But that could be arranged.

I made three phone calls.

The first to an acquaintance who worked at the gallery. The second to cancel my plans for Friday.

I had no one to help, so I was utterly alone in this. Father didn't approve of close friendships, he had explained it as too many opportunities for "inappropriate influences."

The realization should have terrified me, but instead, it strengthened my resolve.

I spent the next three days researching everything I could about Julian Hartmann, his business empire, tech, real estate, venture capital, his reputation, ruthless, brilliant, unforgiving. His personal life that was virtually nonexistent. No serious relationships in years, no scandals, no weaknesses. Donations to children's charities, always in amounts that wouldn't attract attention.

A pattern of businesses he'd refused to acquire, despite their profitability, companies with poor labor practices or environmental records. He had principles, even if he hid them.

Friday night, I told my parents I was having dinner with a college acquaintance, they barely looked up from their brandy.

I drove to the gallery, parked two blocks away, and changed in my car, out of the conservative dress Mother always approved of, into something sleeker, black, sophisticated.

Then I grabbed the waiter's uniform I had borrowed, more like purchased, technically, from a very confused costume shop employee and walked to the service entrance.

"I'm filling in for Maria," I told the catering manager, hoping Maria actually existed and had actually called in sick like my contact had promised.

"You're late," the manager snapped.

"Get inside, grab a tray. We're already behind."

It worked. I was in.

I moved through the gallery with a champagne tray, scanning the crowd for Julian Hartmann.

The gallery was packed with Manhattan's elite, people who had known me since childhood, who would be shocked to see Richard Vance's daughter serving drinks.

I kept my head down, my hair pinned up differently than usual, and prayed no one looked too closely.

Then I saw him.

He stood near a contemporary sculpture, looking bored and okay, maybe handsome in a black suit that probably cost more than my car.

A man beside him, I caught his british accent and sarcastic smile—was saying something that made Julian's mouth quirk slightly.

My heart hammered, this was it. My one chance.

I straightened my spine, channeled every ounce of courage I possessed, and walked directly toward him.

His eyes met mine when I was still ten feet away, Ice blue and sharp, like he could see right through my disguise, right through to every desperate thought in my head.

I didn't falter, couldn't falter.

I reached him, set down my tray on a nearby table, and said the words I had rehearsed a thousand times In my bathroom, looking into the mirror.

"Mr. Hartmann. I have a business proposition for you. Do you have fifteen minutes?"

The British accent man choked on his champagne.

Julian Hartmann studied me with those unnerving eyes, and for a horrible moment, I thought he was going to say no or in worse case he would have me thrown out.

Then his mouth curved into something that might have been a smile, a tiny one.

"I have ten," he said.