Chapter 2
Ididn’t leave with a suitcase. Just a weekend bag and my pride.
He was on shift the day I walked out—twenty-four hours of straight tension, engine noise, meals eaten standing up. That’s the rhythm of a firehouse: hurry up and wait, then race toward the worst day of someone’s life. But that day… the worst belonged to me.
I’d waited until he was gone because I knew if I looked him in the eye, I wouldn’t do it. I’d fold. I always folded for Tariq. Even when he was pulling away from me. Even when the heat between us cooled so much I started waking up cold in our bed.
It hadn’t always been that way.
There was a time when he came home full of stories—high off adrenaline and soot, dragging his gear through the door and peeling off his sweat-soaked shirt with that grin he didn’t show anyone else. He used to hold me with urgency. Eat like the world was ending. Fuck like I was his only relief.
Then came the fire.
The one that didn’t kill him, but killed something inside him just the same.
Afterward, his hands got gentler. His voice quieter.
I’d wake to find him already sitting on the edge of the bed, face in his palms, body tight with something I couldn’t reach.
He stopped laughing. Stopped letting me in.
And no matter how many times I asked, What are you dreaming about, baby?
, he’d just kiss my forehead and say nothing.
But it was something.
Something big enough to turn the man who used to pin me to the mattress and promise me forever into someone I barely recognized. He still touched me, but it was like his heart had left the room.
So I left too.
I stayed with my parents for a little while. Told myself I’d figure things out. That I’d be stronger for both of us if I just had a minute to breathe.
But weeks turned into months. The space got wide. Too wide. And he never came for me.
Maybe he thought he didn’t deserve to.
Still, the ghost of him clung to me—his smell, his shadow, the phantom weight of his arms when I closed my eyes. I missed him every damn day. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t.
I didn’t plan to be in this world—auction houses, six-figure sculptures, warehouses full of secrets. But once you start speaking the language of provenance and authenticity, it’s easy to be mistaken for someone who belongs. And after a while, you do.
When I met Tariq, I was still trying to prove I was more than a girl with a good eye and a BFA.
I’d been working at a regional arts council, organizing small exhibits and lobbying for grants, elbow-deep in community programs and late-night gallery installs.
He came into my life with fire under his skin—quiet, coiled heat—and made me feel like the things I noticed mattered.
Like my instincts weren’t just sharp, but sacred.
Then it all burned down. The us we’d made. The life we shared. My trust, too.
After him, I left. Paris first. Then London.
Picked up a graduate certificate in cultural asset protection.
Studied the black market and learned who moved what across borders and how they made it look clean.
I came back home not just wiser—but carved into something different.
A woman who knew what art was really worth, not just in soul, but in leverage.
That’s how Elijah Lewis found me. He didn’t approach me with menace—he didn’t have to.
He had presence. Politeness as thick as his dangerous reputation, and a long game that made most men look small.
When he asked me to handle his private art holdings, I said yes before I let myself think too hard about what that meant.
Discretion, always. Not everything in his collection had clean origins. Some pieces had passed through too many hands, others hadn’t passed at all. I don’t ask what he doesn’t offer. And in return, he never threatened—just reminded. Of who he was. Of what I’ve seen.
Of the fact that he once tried to set me up with his son, Eli, who gave off heat like a furnace and stared like he could see inside you. I dodged that bullet with a polite smile. Eli was married now, with a baby. Intensity finds its place eventually.
But this fire—the one that tore through one of Elijah’s houses—was different.
I was halfway back to my office when his name lit up my screen. I didn’t hesitate to answer because who knew whether he could see exactly what I was doing at the moment. This was his city. We all just lived in it. I pulled into a lot across from a fish market on Penn Avenue, parked, and answered.
Elijah didn’t waste time with greetings.
“Ms. Ellison,” he said, his voice calm but laced with something colder. “I understand you were on site.”
“I was,” I said softly. “I arrived shortly after the fire was contained.”
“You saw the damage?”
“Yes.”
He went quiet, but I could feel the weight of his silence settling into my chest.
“And the investigator? Tariq Hunt… You know him, right?” he asked, his voice smooth as glass.
Of course, he already knew details I would have glossed over. He knew I’d gone down there like he requested when he called me to inform me there was a fire. He knew who’d walked out of that blackened shell and stood a few feet from me in soot and heat and memory.
That was Elijah. Always a few moves ahead. Always watching the board.
I hesitated. Just for a beat.“Yes,” I said, clearing my throat. “We were… involved. Years ago.”
“That’s good,” he replied, without pause. “Then you’ll be able to find out everything I need to know.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a request. It was the kind of directive that didn’t need repeating.
“Understood,” I said, heart thudding like I’d just been handed a matchbook and pointed toward the wreckage.
He didn’t say goodbye. Just ended the call.