Chapter 3 The Enemy’s Smile

Ava's Point Of View

He hesitates, with a slight narrowing of the eyes. “Be careful, Ms. Moore. Everyone is not good in this building.

The warning hangs in the air.

I nod, forcing a small smile. “I’ll remember that.”

I am weak on my knees as I step out of his office, but my heart is racing. Still, impossible to read, every word, every look.

But I’m not here to read him. I’m here to ruin him.

As I head to the lobby again, I notice that my image in the elevator doors is different. Sharper. Colder.

Eva Moore has arrived.

Nevertheless, when I go out on the street, I just cannot get rid of the impression that I feel that somebody is observing me. The hairs on my neck rise.

On the other side of the road, a black car is parked, as usual.

The headlights flare, and I blink. It wheels off into the traffic a moment later.

I shake my head, holding on to the strap of my bag and saying to myself it is nothing. Just nerves.

However, as I arrive at home, another envelope is in my doormat. No name. No return address.

I tear it open. It contains one photograph of me standing outside the office at Liam Hart that morning.

On the reverse, in black: You are not the only one who has a plan, Eva.

The initial morning at Vanguard is like entering a dream that I do not fit in at all. All glistens, the floors are made of marble, the walls are made of glass, and elevators are made of silver, and hum like a secret. Individuals are fast-paced, smooth and assertive.

I’m not one of them. Not really. I am only a shadow trying to pass.

As I step outside the elevator doors on the 28th floor the silence of power overwhelms me. The chairs are in rows as soldiers and the screens are blue and the voices are low and clipped. All the eyes look up at me as I pass, some with interest, some with slight envy. The new assistant to him.

At the far end is the office of Liam Hart, which is a glass room and looks onto the city. The door is open. He is already standing there with one hand in his pocket and the other one holding a mug of coffee by the window. His hair is dark, and the morning light is caught in it, making it bronze to his dark.

In turning him I nearly forget to breathe.

“Good morning, Ms. Moore.” His voice is smooth, steady. And his eyes, gray, inscrutable flick a moment at my face and pass.

“Good morning, Mr. Hart.”

He points outside his office to the desk. “You’ll work here. You run everything through meetings, calls, scheduling, everything.

I nod, taking a seat. It is my hands that move on their own, organizing files, configuring my computer. But my pulse won’t slow. I am aware of his presence, even when I have my back turned. It is like being too near fire you cannot see the flame but you get the burn.

All the women passing by give him a glare. Others are smiling, lingering, hopeful. He doesn’t notice. Or perhaps he does and he simply does not care. His smiles are good, civil, vacant.

However, once, o so often, his jaw hardens and his eyes are black, and I can also see a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

The Glass conference room has a meeting at ten. I am positioned by the door holding a notepad where I feign to be taking notes but I am spying on him.

The subject: the Ethan Montgomery Fund Gala on an annual basis.

I slip my pen at hearing the name of my brother.

Liam does not change his face, and his hand makes a fist on the table. We will retain the fund in its old name, he says impartially. “It deserves that respect.”

Respect. The word burns.

The rest nodding in agreement. No one notices the muscle twitching in his jaw, the glimpsing of something raw in his eyes and turning the page.

I scribe in his words, feigning to be calm. My throat tightens. He has no right to mention the name of Ethan.

Upon the conclusion of the meeting, I spend time lingering to take notes. Liam pauses at the entrance, looking at me.

“You did well,” he says. You talk less than you hear. I like that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hart.”

“Liam,” he corrects softly.

I look up. “I prefer formality.”

He examines me a moment, then mumbles, and says, I like honesty.

The air tightens. My heart trips. His voice is not cold it is searching. Almost like he is hunting something in me.

I force a small smile. Then we must start both compromising.

He smiles really, this time, a short, twisted, threatening smile. “Fair enough.”

Hours blur together. His timing will be exactly, meetings, calls, signatures. He never shouts, never hurries. Yet there is control in all the movements, as even his silence has weight.

And I despise that I observe all about him. How his sleeves roll up whenever he is concentrating. The faint scar near his wrist. Even the manner in which he is hesitant to respond seems to cost him something.

I assure myself that it is in the scheme. Observation. Strategy. Nothing more.

It is late afternoon and I am working on the storage file of old files next to his desk. A vast majority are muffled - budgets, reports, letters. Then my fingers touch something new: a thick heavy sealed up envelope.

It is spelled in good black ink- E.M. Fund.

My pulse skips. Ethan’s initials.

I look over at the office of Liam, who is on a call and is not facing me. I take the envelope and open it.

There are documents within, bank transfer receipts, donation records. I read the pages, my breath being caught in each line.

He’s been donating. For three years. Millions,--by the name of my brother. Shelters, scholarships, hospitals.

I sit down into the chair, trembling with the papers in my hands.

Why would he do this?

The person who killed Ethan has no business creating a legacy to his name. Guilt? Redemption? Lies? None of it makes sense.

I slip the envelope back in time to see Liam leave his office.

His brows are drawn up, and he looks at me. “You’re still here.”

I am about to complete some filing, I say hastily, with an even tone.

He nods, and looks at me a second longer than he need not. “Go home soon. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he vanishes into the house he breathes a sigh of relief. My heart won’t slow down. The articles were too genuine, too personal. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t still care.

Unless—he didn’t kill Ethan.

The idea cuts me in the stomach before I can prevent it. I push it away. No. The police said he did. The world said he did.

But then why…

The building is covered with night. The majority of the employees are home. The office hums with silence. I work late, faking I am working on reports yet my brain is going round and round.

The city is glowing in the windows-- Lights in the dark like veins. I should leave, but I can’t. My mind is mangled and dishevelled.

Hatred used to be simple. Clear. Sharp. Now it weighs on, is dimmed with uncertainty.

I close the computer, grab my bag and go to the elevator. The house is deserted and the air cold. My feet clatter weakly on the marble.

Then—

You are not supposed to be here that late, Ava.

My name.

Not Eva. Ava.

I freeze mid-step. It is low, smooth, though the blood is ice in my veins. I turn slowly.

Liam is standing at the end of the hall half in shadow with his hands in his pockets. Eyes that stare the hard and the intelligent.

My throat goes dry. “I—You must’ve misheard.”

He comes nearer, taking his stride by stride. “No,” he says quietly. “I didn’t.”

My pulse slams in my ears.

He pauses some few feet off, the distance between us filled. His voice drops lower. “You’ve changed your hair. Your name. But not your eyes.”

I can’t move.

He examines me as he is a sightseer. “Why are you here, Ava?”

I squeeze my bag strap with my fingers. My voice barely comes out. “To make you pay.”

His face does not alter,--but his eyes. There is something dark that is flitting, something almost, sad.

And then he is whispering, You do not know what actually happened, do you?