Chapter Eleven
Hailey
The envelope is waiting for me when I open my door the next morning, propped against the doorframe. No postmark. No return
address. Just my name in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere, those confident loops and slashes that used to leave notes on
my pillow, sign forged documents, scrawl love letters on hotel stationery across three continents.
My hands are trembling before I even get it open.
Inside, there’s a photograph. Eight by ten, glossy, professionally printed. Twenty million dollars staring back at me from
a piece of paper.
The Snowflake Diamond.
I sink onto the hallway floor right there, my back against the doorframe, unable to make my legs carry me any farther. God,
I’d almost forgotten how beautiful it is. Twenty-three carats of perfect clarity, cut in that distinctive pattern that earned
its name, each facet catching light like frozen starlight. In the photo, it’s displayed on black velvet under museum lighting,
probably the insurance company’s documentation shot before we liberated it from Kedrov’s private collection.
No note accompanies the image. Liam doesn’t need one. The message is clear enough.
I know you saw me last night. I know you recognized me. And now we need to talk about the one thing that still binds us together.
I stare at the diamond for a long time. The last time I saw it in person, I was shoving it into a waterproof case and burying it in frozen ground while my fingers went numb and my breath fogged in the arctic air. I thought I was being smart. Careful. I thought I was buying us time.
I fold the photograph and tuck it into my coat pocket, then force myself to stand up and walk to work like a normal person
having a normal day. The December air bites at my cheeks. Christmas shoppers crowd the sidewalks. Somewhere, “Silver Bells”
is playing from a storefront speaker.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
The studio doesn’t help. Usually this space calms me down, the familiar smell of metal and flux, the orderly rows of tools,
the soft natural light that Sloane insisted on when she designed the layout. But today I can’t settle. I keep glancing at
the door, at the windows, at my own reflection in the polished silver I’m supposed to be working on. Every footstep in the
hallway makes my shoulders tense. Every notification ping from my phone sends my heart into my throat. I’ve built a life here.
A real one, with health insurance and tax returns and a 401k that I actually contribute to. Hailey Parker, jewelry designer’s
assistant, law-abiding citizen, person who definitely does not have a twenty-million-dollar diamond buried in the Canadian
wilderness.
Sloane notices around eleven.
“You okay?” She looks up from the commission piece she’s been wrestling with all morning. “You seem jumpy.”
“Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.” I force a smile that probably looks as convincing as a three-dollar bill. “Too much coffee,
not enough food. You know how it goes.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go. That’s one of the things I love about Sloane. She knows when to push and when
to give space.
“Speaking of which,” she says, setting down her pliers, “I’m closing the studio for the holidays. Starting the twentieth.”
I blink at her. “You’re what?”
“Closing. The studio.” She says it slowly, like I might be having a stroke. “That thing where we lock the doors and don’t come to work? I’ve heard other businesses do it. Apparently it’s very popular.”
“Sloane, I’ve seen you answer client emails at midnight on a Saturday.”
“That was the old me. The new me has the man I love, and he’s going to have an actual vacation if I have to tie him to a beach
chair myself.” She grins. “I’m making Cole give everyone at Asher Industries two weeks paid time off. The twentieth through
New Year’s. Mandatory.”
“You’re making Cole Asher, workaholic billionaire, shut down his company for two weeks?”
“I’m very persuasive.” The grin turns wicked. “Also, I told him if he doesn’t, I’m hiding his laptop and all his devices in
a location he’ll never find. He knows I’m good at hiding things.”
I snort. “And he agreed to this?”
“He grumbled about quarterly reports for approximately four minutes, and then I reminded him that he literally owns the company
and the quarterly reports will still be there in January.” She waves a hand. “Anyway, the point is, you’re off too. Two full
weeks, paid. No arguments. I don’t want to see your face until after New Year’s.” She pauses, eyes gleaming. “Knox will have
the time off too, by the way. Just in case you were wondering. Hint . . . hint . . . hint.”
“Sloane—”
“Paid time off, Hailey. Those are three of the most beautiful words in the English language. The correct response is, ‘Thank
you, Sloane, you’re a generous goddess and I don’t deserve you.’ ”
Despite everything—the photograph in my pocket, the ghost from my past, the slow unraveling of my carefully constructed life—I
feel my mouth twitch. “Thank you, Sloane. You’re a generous goddess and I don’t deserve you.”
“Damn right.” She picks up her pliers again. “Now stop looking like someone killed your puppy and go fix those earring backs.
We’ve got to wrap everything up before I kick us both out of here.”
I turn back to my workbench and pick up where I left off, but my hands won’t cooperate. The tiny clasps blur in front of me. I’m on my third attempt at the same piece—at this rate, Sloane’s going to demote me to coffee duty—when the buzz of the security door makes me drop my pliers.
Knox fills the doorway, broad shoulders blocking most of the light from the hall. He’s wearing that charcoal suit that fits
him like it was sewn directly onto his body, his hair slightly disheveled from the wind outside. Those gray eyes find me immediately,
and my stomach seizes.
My pliers are on the floor. I’m on my hands and knees retrieving them like a very cool, very composed person. Fantastic.
“Security check,” he announces, nodding at Sloane. But he’s already crossing the room toward my workstation, his focus locked
on me.
I used to find that flattering. Right now, it just sets my teeth on edge. Hard to enjoy being the center of someone’s attention
when you’re busy having a small breakdown about your criminal past.
“Hey.” I manage to sound almost normal. “Everything okay?”
“You tell me.” He stops beside my bench, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Clean and expensive, with something warm
underneath. “You canceled last night. Said you had a headache.”
“I did have a headache.”
“Mmm.” He doesn’t blink. “And now you look like you haven’t slept, you’re jumping at shadows, and you’ve got that tight thing
happening around your eyes that you get when you’re stressed.”
Damn him and his observation skills. “Maybe I just don’t like being interrogated before lunch.”
“This isn’t an interrogation.” His voice softens. “This is me being worried about you.”
I set down my tools because my hands aren’t steady enough to hold them anyway.
Knox is watching me like he wants to wrap me in bubble wrap and hide me somewhere no one can find me.
And I want to tell him everything. The diamond, the theft, the five years of looking over my shoulder.
The ex-boyfriend who just showed up like a ghost from a past I’ve tried so hard to bury.
But Knox isn’t just a security expert with a protective streak. He’s former military, law enforcement adjacent, a man who
has spent his career on the right side of the law. If he finds out what I used to be, what I used to do, he won’t just be
disappointed. He might feel obligated to do something about it.
Would he still look at me like this if he knew? Would he still want to bring me soup when I’m sick, still park outside my
building at night?
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really. Just a rough night.”
He studies me for another long moment. Knox isn’t stupid. He knows I’m holding something back.
But instead of pushing, he just nods. “Okay. But you know where to find me if that changes.”
“I know.”
He glances around the studio, doing an actual security sweep now, checking windows and exits and blind spots. Professional
Knox, doing his job. When he finishes, he pauses by the door.
“Dinner,” he says. His eyes hold mine, steel-gray and absolutely certain. “Tonight. My place, like we planned.”
“Knox—”
“Whatever’s going on with you, you don’t have to face it alone.” His shoulders square. “Let me in, Hailey. Even if you can’t
tell me everything, let me be there.”
I look at him standing in the doorway. This man who’s been watching over me for months. Who tracked me through Bryant Park
and never once made me feel afraid. Who bought me earrings at a Christmas market and kissed me on my front steps and offered
to bring me soup for a fake headache. He’s offering me everything I thought I wanted. A partner. Someone to lean on. A future
that doesn’t involve running.
This man equals stability.
Protection.
Someone who doesn’t run away, but instead does the opposite. He’ll charge full speed toward me. I know this. My gut knows this.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Tonight.”
His shoulders drop, just slightly. Like he’d been bracing for rejection.
“Seven o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at the door, too aware of the photograph in my pocket.
The next few hours pass in a blur of busywork. I fix the earring backs. I polish a set of silver bangles. I organize the supply
closet, which doesn’t need to be organized, but it gives me something to do with my hands that isn’t checking my phone every
thirty seconds. Sloane shoots me a few concerned looks but doesn’t push, probably assuming my weirdness is Knox-related. She’s
not entirely wrong.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve almost convinced myself that the photograph was a fluke. A one-time message. Maybe Liam just wanted
me to know he was in the city. Maybe he’ll drop it now that he’s made his point, let me go the way I let him go five years
ago, and I can go back to pretending none of it ever happened.
I should know better than to hope for easy.
The courier arrives just after three.
Sloane’s stepped out to grab us coffee from the place around the corner, which means I’m alone when the guy in the branded
polo appears at the security door with a clipboard and a padded envelope. I sign for it with a fake smile and wait until he’s
gone before I tear it open.
A burner phone slides into my palm. Black, cheap, the kind you buy at a bodega with cash. Underneath it, a folded note in
that same familiar handwriting.
We need to talk. Alone. The diamond isn’t safe. Neither are you. —L
The phone starts ringing before I’ve finished reading.
I glance toward the door. Still empty. Sloane won’t be back for at least ten minutes. I slip into the hallway, pressing my back against the wall beside the fire exit, and answer.
“Liam.”
“Hails.” Five years, and he still says my name like that. Like we’re mid-conversation, like no time has passed at all, like
I didn’t leave him with hollow words on paper and never look back. “It’s good to hear you.”
I want to scream at him. I want to demand to know why he’s here, why now, why he couldn’t just let me have this new life I’ve
built from the ashes of the old one. But Sloane could come back any second, and the hallway isn’t exactly soundproof. I keep
it low, controlled.
“Why are you here?”
“Because someone’s hunting us.” No preamble. No charm. Just flat, serious Liam, which scares me more than any threat could.
“Someone who knows about the diamond. They found me in Boston three weeks ago. Threats first, then surveillance. Then a break-in
at my apartment while I was out.” He pauses. “They tossed the place, Hailey. Took it apart like they were looking for something
specific. I barely got out before they came back.”
My fingers tighten on the phone. “How do you know it’s connected to the diamond?”
“Because they left a message. A photograph, just like the one I left you. Kedrov’s insurance documentation. They know what
we took, and they want it back.” I hear him exhale, rough and tired. “I tracked the threat back here. To New York. To you.
Whoever’s looking, they’re going to find you next. If they haven’t already.”
The hallway feels colder than it did a minute ago.
“So what’s your plan?” I keep it vague on purpose—I’m not saying a single word I wouldn’t want Sloane to overhear.
“I have one. But not over a phone, Hailey. I need to see you.”
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. Somewhere down the hall, an elevator dings. Footsteps approach and then recede. Normal people, living normal lives, completely unaware that there’s a former jewel thief having a crisis ten feet away.
“Tonight,” I hear myself say. “We’ll meet. Where?”
“I’ll text you the address. Come alone.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the burner phone in my hand. The photograph is still in my coat pocket. Two pieces
of my past, pressing against me like weights.
Knox wants to have dinner at seven. Liam wants to meet in secret. And somewhere out there, someone is hunting for a diamond
I buried in frozen Canadian soil five years ago, back when I thought I could outrun my own choices.
My past hasn’t just caught up with me.
It’s about to swallow me whole.