Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Henry
Gold light glinted off chandeliers suspended from vaulted ceilings, casting a glow over marble floors polished to a mirror’s sheen. Soft strains of classical music drifted through the air, muffled by the murmur of cultured voices and the occasional clink of crystal glasses filled with champagne.
Everyone here wore their power like bespoke armor, tailored and adorned, pretending not to notice how ruthlessly they all measured one another. Behind every laugh was leverage. Behind every compliment, a power play.
Victor Kane stood at the center of it all like a crowned monarch. Confident. Calculated. Smiling just wide enough to suggest interest.
Ariana was the queen at his side. The gown she wore was pure decadence — deep red satin that slid over her body as if it was made for her alone.
Her hair was an intricate sculpture of glossy waves twisted into a chignon, held in place by glittering pins that probably cost more than my first car.
Every inch of her screamed perfection. Restraint. A woman bred to be admired.
And I hated that I noticed her.
From my vantage point near the edge of the museum’s gallery, I watched them work the crowd.
My whiskey sat untouched in my hand as my eyes tracked their every movement.
The handshake Victor offered a diplomat.
The way Ariana smiled at a congressman’s wife without showing her teeth. Polished. Strategic. Rehearsed.
This was their kingdom.
But kingdoms fall.
And I’d make damn sure Victor fell hard. That they both did.
A man in a dark suit approached Victor, interrupting him.
The exchange was quiet, hushed behind the polite hum of socialites and politicians comparing vacation homes and luxury cars.
Victor’s mask slipped, just a flicker, but I saw it.
A fracture in the performance. He briefly turned toward Ariana and whispered something to her before excusing himself from their circle and vanishing with the man through a side door.
I considered following them to see if whatever had Victor on edge could give me more information. But then a flash of red caught my eye.
Ariana moved through the room, graceful and deliberate. I expected her to approach another cluster of socialites to charm, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. She just kept walking.
Against my better judgment, I followed her.
I told myself it was tactical. That studying her was part of the mission.
In reality, there was something else pulling me toward her. What that was, I couldn’t articulate. I just needed to be near her.
I kept to the edges of the crowd, avoiding servers and curious eyes, slipping between a marble column and a sculpture of a Grecian goddess draped in silk.
Ariana moved with purpose. But it wasn’t the easy glide she exhibited when working the room with Victor. There was no performance now. Just a woman seemingly on a mission.
She paused at the threshold of the 19th-century landscape gallery, briefly glancing over her shoulder before disappearing inside.
And I followed her yet again, my legs pulling me toward her instead of Victor.
The gallery was dimmer, quieter. A sanctuary hidden within the chaos. Velvet ropes guided visitors through oil-drenched landscapes with perfect skies and rolling meadows.
In the silence, the click of my shoes against the marble felt as loud as thunder. But Ariana didn’t move. She kept her back to me, her eyes focused on one of the larger paintings.
I stayed near the archway at first, studying everything about her. Her shoulders weren’t rigid. Her spine didn’t carry the unfaltering stiffness I’d come to associate with her. Instead, she seemed almost…relieved. Like she could breathe.
I drifted closer, my legs moving of their own accord as I pretended to examine a painting a few feet down. She didn’t look at me, but I saw her peripheral flicker.
This was the closest I’d ever been to her. I’d spent the past several months watching her from afar, but I never approached her. I intended to stay in the shadows until I put my plan into motion.
Which was all the more reason I shouldn’t be here right now.
But I couldn’t find the strength to leave.
“It’s peaceful,” I remarked, my deep voice cutting through the silence.
“More lonely, if you ask me.”
My gaze drifted toward her. She still hadn’t looked away from the painting, but something in her expression shifted. Her brows drew in slightly. Her lips parted just enough to suggest she wanted to continue her thought, but stopped herself.
“How so?” I prodded, inching closer.
“People want to see peace when they look at art,” she replied.
“They search for beauty. Serenity. Something that tells them the world is okay. If you look at the big picture, sure. It looks peaceful. No one notices the broken fence. Or how the roses haven’t been tended to.
Or how the sky’s too pale. Like it’s been drained of all its color. All its life.”
Her voice was steady, but I heard the crack just beneath the surface.
“It’s still beautiful,” I offered.
I never understood or appreciated art. I wasn’t brought up that way. The only art I knew was how to survive in the wilderness.
“Is it? Or are we just trained to see what we’re told to?”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I opted for a slight change of subject. “You don’t strike me as someone who notices broken fences.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
She finally turned her head, meeting my gaze.
Her crystal blue eyes were sharp. Intelligent.
A little sad. And nothing like I anticipated.
I’d expected them to be cold and calculating with a touch of superiority.
Instead, they were pained and tired, as if she was exhausted from carrying too much for too long.
They reminded me of the expression my mother wore in her final days.
“No one thinks women like me notice anything. But we see everything.”
“Like what?”
“Like how you’ve been watching me all night.”
This pulled a low sound from my throat, half a laugh, half a curse. “You noticed.”
If she noticed, who else did?
“You’re hard not to notice.”
“Is that right?”
I was supposed to hate this woman. She wore designer gowns paid for with blood. But the things she said didn’t add up to the woman I thought her to be.
“You don’t move like the rest of them,” she explained. “Everyone else here is playing a part.”
“And you’re not?”
She shook her head. “I’m not playing. I’m surviving.”
The words weren’t dramatic. Just simple. Plain. And they wrapped around something inside me like wire. I moved even closer, drawn to her in a way I couldn’t begin to explain.
“What are you surviving, Mrs. Kane?”
A heavy silence stretched between us as I looked at her. Really looked at her.
Right now, she wasn’t the woman in all the photographs. The poised, smiling society wife. She was something else. Something cracked and raw, yet still fighting to keep the pieces together.
She parted her lips, but before she could respond, footsteps cut through like a bullet.
In a heartbeat, she recoiled from me, slipping her mask back into place with surgical precision as Victor stepped into the gallery, his expression dark and tight.
But when he saw Ariana wasn’t alone, he plastered a smile on his face, looking between his wife and me.
“You had me worried, my love,” he crooned in a slick voice that made me want to cut out his voice box.
But that was better than he deserved.
When his time came, it wouldn’t be a quick death. I’d make him suffer. And I’d enjoy every excruciating second.
“I had no idea where you’d run off to.” He wrapped an arm around Ariana’s waist and pulled her against him.
A strange feeling ripped through me as I watched him. Something red and hot that felt a lot like jealousy, but I quickly pushed it down. I wasn’t jealous of Victor Kane. I was angry at him for still breathing while Sarah didn’t. That was all this was.
“Well, you found me.”
“I always will.” He tightened his hold on Ariana, and I could have sworn I noticed her wince slightly before fixing her expression once more. Then he focused his attention on me. “Who’s your new friend?”
“Oh, he’s not?—”
“Henry Fontaine.” I extended my hand toward his, studying his reaction. There was a flicker of recognition, making it obvious he’d heard of me — the recluse hacker turned cyber security expert who never attended this kind of event.
“Nice to meet you,” he said as we shook.
It took all my resolve to resist the urge to tighten my grip and break every single bone in his hand.
His time would come.
And I would break more than just his hand.
“Your wife was gracious enough to share her interpretation of these paintings,” I offered with a charismatic smile, masking the monster inside me. “It was rather…enlightening.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said as Ariana kept her eyes averted. “Now if you’ll excuse us…”
“Of course. Enjoy your evening.”
Victor turned Ariana toward the exit, his grip on her remaining tight. Possessive.
A man staking his claim.
I lingered a moment longer, returning my eyes to the painting. Unlike mere moments ago, I no longer saw the peaceful pastoral scene. Now I saw what Ariana did. Emptiness. Loneliness.
It made me curious about her. She was definitely not the superficial woman I assumed she was. It made me briefly wonder what else I’d gotten wrong, but I quickly pushed aside the thought.
It was just her interpretation of art, something I knew nothing about. It didn’t change anything. I was here for one reason and one reason only.
To even the score.
And I would use Ariana to do exactly that.