A single white peony lies on my pillow, its petals perfect and unblemished.
Not a rose. A peony.
Wild. Unpredictable. Real.
My knees weaken, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, the flower trembling in my hands. There’s no note, no explanation needed. The message is clear: he’s been here. In my most private space. And he wants me to know it.
I lift the flower to my face and inhale its sweet scent, my eyes closing as the petals brush against my lips. The touch is soft and delicate—nothing like the man who left it here. My fingers trace the stem, finding it freshly cut, the end still damp. He must have been here recently. Maybe even while I was at the café with Sophie, discussing him like he was some unfortunate stranger and not the ghost haunting every waking moment of my life.
I imagine him moving through my apartment, touching my things, choosing exactly where to leave his mark.
Did he linger? Did he touch anything else? The silk of my nightgown hanging on the bathroom door? The perfume bottles on my vanity?
I promise myself I’ll throw the flower away. Tomorrow.
Tonight, I place it in a crystal vase on my nightstand, where I can see it from my bed.
Chapter 8
Lucian
Evelyn’s art conservation studio is located in Midtown, housed in a converted warehouse that’s been gutted and rebuilt into a sleek, modern space. It’s just after lunch, so the administrative part of the studio is quiet, with a few assistants working diligently at their desks. The air smells faintly of turpentine and aged paper, a scent that clings to Evelyn like a second skin.
The receptionist, a mousy thing with horn-rimmed glasses, leads me to the empty boardroom, where I take a seat. I pull out the case file, adjust the Montblanc pen parallel to the document edges, and wait.
The museum’s board members file in one by one, a parade of old money and older grudges. I’ve done my homework on each of them—their divorces, their debts, their desperate attempts tocling to relevance in a world that’s moved past their particular brand of aristocratic entitlement.
“Mr. Blackwood, we’re honored you took a personal interest in our little problem. Your family’s support has been invaluable to the museum,” the board president, Sarah Langford, simpers as she settles into her chair. The others murmur their agreement, sheep following their shepherd.
“Every issue holds significance, Mrs. Langford. Especially when it intersects with the interests of the Blackwood Foundation.”
It’s an exaggeration.
The disputed artwork currently at the center of their legal quagmire is a minor piece in the grand scheme of our family’s philanthropic endeavors, which are essentially tax write-offs and image. But it’s a piece Evelyn wants to restore. Tobias couldn’t be bothered to leverage family connections on her behalf, but I see the opportunity for what it is—a chance to step in where my brother has failed, to show Evelyn that I’m the one who truly understands her passions and needs.
My brother’s greatest flaw is taking what’s precious for granted.
The meeting progresses with the predictable tedium of legal negotiations. I dissect their opponent’s claims, outlining a strategy that will secure the artwork and crush the opposition’s arguments. The board members lean forward, hanging on every word, their eyes gleaming with the particular hunger of those who mistake proximity to power for power itself.
“The Caravaggio will be yours within two months,” I conclude, closing the file with finality. “My team will handle the litigation.”
My eyes meet Evelyn’s supervisor, Marcus Duval, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I’ve done my research on him, too, as I do with everyone who touches Evelyn’s life. Marcus is competent enough, but he lacks vision. More importantly, I’veseen how he looks at Evelyn—the lingering glances at benefit galas, his hand hovering on her shoulder when discussing projects. He thinks his interest is subtle.
It’s not.
“There is, however, one condition.”
Langford leans forward, her hands fluttering nervously. “Of course, Mr. Blackwood. Whatever you need.”
“Evelyn Laurent will lead the restoration project.”
A flicker of surprise crosses Duval’s face before he schools his expression into neutrality. Langford nods vigorously, her relief palpable.
“Of course,” she says. “Ms. Laurent is more than qualified.”
She ismorethan qualified. Caravaggio is Evelyn’s specialty; her bachelor’s thesis was focused on his techniques and materials. She’s published papers on his chiaroscuro methods, spent a semester replicating his work. But none of it matters to Sarah Langford. She’d give the project to a janitor if it meant keeping Blackwood money flowing.
“Excellent,” I say. “Now let’s discuss the terms of the Blackwood Foundation’s sponsorship.”
