Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Adrien
Instead of going back to my office, I head straight to the judge’s chambers, riding in the back of the second car I ordered. The route to Foley Square is a slow grind of yellow lights and brake taps, giving me time to watch the blue dot on my phone slide uptown—north, then west.
Interesting. I would’ve pegged her for the Upper East Side—classic six, pre-war bones—but the West Side fits better. Less pedigree, more anonymity. I’d bet she runs at dawn when the park is empty and uncomplicated.
Minutes later, a text pings—a photo of Brie entering a building beneath a green canopy, a suited doorman holding the door. Excellent.
I’ll charm the doorman, have him buzz her, learn her unit. Confirm that her name really is Brie Anderson. Even if I already know it is. Even if what I’m really confirming is that Monaco wasn’t a fever dream.
Of course, this shouldn’t matter. Not when my first independent venture might implode spectacularly. But obsession, like luxury, rarely answers to reason. We d’Avricourts excel at unreasonable.
Margot’s name flashes on my screen. It’s after dinner in Paris—she’ll be on her second glass of Sancerre, antennae sharpened.
She’ll hear the strain in my voice within three words, and with Alicia Morgan’s name already logged in her mental dossier, she’ll extract every detail until I crack. I decline the call. Not today.
When I arrive at the courthouse, I take the concrete steps two by two, weaving through a mix of suits and those who’ve clearly decided impressing a judge is optional. On the right floor, I’m greeted by Canary, a young Black legal clerk with a bright, white smile.
“He’s still in session,” she says.
“No problem. I’ll wait.”
“I’m not sure you can—”
“Consider me the inconvenient husband.”
Her brows lift, but she grins, playing along. “I’ll look the other way, just this once. You want a soda?”
“A what?”
“I’m getting a Coke. Want anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“If the phone rings, can you answer it?”
“My. I’ve gone from uninvited guest to trusted secretary.”
“A notepad’s by the phone. Answer with, ‘Judge Brennan’s office.’”
“Doesn’t he have voicemail?”
“He does, but then I’d have to check it. Easier to read your handwriting.”
The second I lower into his office chair, the tan phone rings. Naturally. I let it.
Closing my eyes, I exhale, still reeling from today’s discovery.
On some level, I knew there was rot inside my walls. A bug, maybe. A single bad actor. But an entire enterprise? I shake my head. The cleaning crew must have seen something. Or maybe Eddie had help—from every department, every floor.
“Well, shit. Did someone die?”
I look up at Brennan in his robe, tie loosened, the picture of judicial fatigue.
“No. But I need to drink.”
He checks his watch. “I have twenty minutes. Tops.” He closes the blinds and retrieves two crystal glasses and a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet.
“That’s fine,” I say, though he pours anyway—one full glass for me, a symbolic taste for himself—and props against the desk.
“What’s up? No death, no injury… Betrayal, then?”
I think of Eddie. Didn’t know him well but drank with him once or twice. Never thought he’d fuck me over. “Something like that.” I stare into the amber liquid. “Ever trust someone completely? Build something on that trust, only to find out they’ve been bleeding you the entire time?”
Brennan leans back. “Is this about your Monaco obsession? Or the meeting Margot insisted you take?”
“Both, maybe. That meeting Margot insisted I take, with Alicia Morgan? It’s confirmed. An employee’s stabbing me in the back. Selling member data.” Data is the polite word. The real one is leverage.
“Ah. Hence the crisis communications firm called in–the, ah, data as you call it–leaked?”
“Not yet.” I admit, swirling my drink. “Extortion.”
“Oof. And the woman? Monaco?” I told Tommy she’d surfaced–a decision I might come to regret.
“No progress.” Lie by omission. Progress exists… just not the kind I’m confessing yet.
“Well,” he says, raising his glass, “at least you can fire one of your problems.”
“Hmm. And I will.”
He studies me as he takes a slow sip. Brennan always did see too clearly. “Not much rattles you. What is it with this long-lost lover?”
Not lost anymore. I finally know where she lives—or soon will.
“Margot and I both agree she threw you for a loop with that vanishing game.”
“She left. Didn’t leave a way to reach her. There’s no game in that.”
“True. More than one girl in college did that to me. Or if I had her number, she didn’t answer.”
“It’s called ghosting.”
He smirks. Brennan knows perfectly well, but this is his way of easing the blow. “Why were you talking to Margot?”
“She said you hadn’t answered her calls. She’s worried.”
“Duly noted.”
He sniffs his bourbon. “Want to meet up later? You pick the place.”
“No. If things go well, I’ll already have dinner plans.”
“Monaco?”
“If you want to call her that.” I drain my glass. “Yes.”
When I open his office door, Canary spins in her chair. “I gave you one job.”
Brennan laughs. “This is not the man to give a job to, Canary.”
He means it as a joke; it still cuts. Maybe that’s why Eddie thought he could build a hidden room under my nose—because everyone assumes I only manage surfaces.
Outside, I debate where to go. My thumb opens the Uber app before I’ve decided. Two minutes later, I’m in the back of a Fisker Ocean, the driver tapping the wheel to a song I don’t recognize.
Crosstown traffic crawls, Manhattan’s arteries clogged with ambition. Nearly an hour later, I step out across from the green awning.
The doorman appears before I reach the steps. Red beard, thinning hair, polite wariness. “How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Brie Anderson.”
He stiffens. His eyes travel from my face to my Brunello Cucinellis, calculating. Wealthy men show up at buildings like this all the time—some invited, some not.
“Sorry, sir. No one here by that name.”
He’s lying, of course. The pause before “sorry” gave him away. Whether Brie trained him or he’s just protective, I can’t tell.
I pull out my phone, showing him the photo—the one taken not thirty minutes ago.
“Do you recognize this woman?”
His lips twitch, like he’s in on a private joke. “She doesn’t live here, sir.”
“Do you—”
“I’ll need to ask you to leave.”
Right.
I obey, because I plan to play the long game.
I locate an acceptable bistro—exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows, authenticity by design—and order an espresso I don’t want.
Decoy address. Nicely done. I’m at Joe Coffee. Join me or I’ll assume you’re avoiding me.
Perhaps I shouldn’t put this in writing. But it’s done.
I check my phone with the grim persistence of someone who isn’t used to being ignored. Nothing.
Twenty minutes later, I’m debating whether persistence makes me romantic or unhinged when she appears outside the window.
Brie.
She scans the room, finds me. That flicker—annoyance? resignation?—crosses her face, but she comes in anyway. She’s traded her work clothes for dark jeans and a cream cashmere sweater—simple, but exquisite. Her hair catches the light like spun gold. Conversations stall; heads turn.
She slides into the chair opposite me, every movement deliberate, fluid, composed. Her knee brushes mine under the table as she settles. Accidental. Still, my body reacts like it’s a signal.
“You followed me.”
“No. My driver reported your location,” I correct. “There’s a distinction.” Even as I say it, I hear the rationalization.
“Is there?” She gestures to the waitress. “Mint tea, if you have it.”
The waitress retreats. Silence hums between us with the unpleasantness of static.
“The doorman was very polite,” I say. “Clearly trained to protect your privacy.”
“People in my line of work value privacy.”
“So do people in mine.” I let out a low laugh. “Though I’m learning I’m not particularly good at protecting it.”
Her expression softens. “What you discovered today—it’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? I own the building. I hired the staff. I trusted the wrong people.” I pause. “Trust is the one currency I’ve always spent too freely—investors, partners, lovers. Each promising permanence; each eventually selling the illusion back to me.”
“You’ve been running a legitimate business,” she says gently. “Someone else had a side hustle.”
The server returns with tea. Brie wraps her hands around the cup, drawing warmth from it. Her sleeves ride back an inch. A bare strip of wrist. Ridiculous that something that small can feel obscene. Her fingers—long, elegant, ringless—stir memories: her touch, her music, her breath against my skin.
“You could’ve asked where I lived,” she says.
“Would you have told me?”
“Probably not,” she admits. “But asking is more civilized.”
“Then asking my driver was necessary.”
“It was invasive.”
“Brie, I need to know—how much of what happened between us was real?”
She sets down her cup with surgical precision, the china clinking against the saucer like punctuation. “Does it matter?”
“It matters to me—more than it should.” My voice comes out rough, with more emotion than I care to let on, but that doesn’t hinder me. “Because if it wasn’t real for you, I’ve been grieving a woman who never existed. And I need to know if I’m unhinged or just...unlucky.”
“You’re surrounded by beautiful women who probably fawn over you. You have everything you want in spades.”
“Do I?” I gesture to the window. “I searched for a woman who didn’t exist. Dated others. Each one felt like a counterfeit.”
“That’s dramatic. We had a weekend.”
“I had hope.”
And I didn’t know hope could bruise like this.
“You’re not that good an actress, Brie. Why vanish? Why stay gone?”
She studies me, long and measured. “What did you see when you looked at me?”