Chapter 3 Daisy
The first rays of morning filtered through the canopy along the street, casting shadows across the cobblestones in front of the shop.
“Good morning, Miss Elfhorn,” Marlon greeted with a nod.
After four weeks, I knew all the bodyguards’ names now—the men who worked for Mr. Miller.
Their presence gave me a strange sense of safety.
Broad shoulders. Sharp eyes that never rested.
They were always there before I arrived, and still there when I left.
“Good morning, Marlon. Good morning, Rick,” I replied.
Rick’s face seemed carved into a permanent mask of sternness. His nod was curt. “Good morning, Miss Elfhorn.”
Beatrice had moved to Switzerland weeks ago, promising she’d visit one day.
She still called often to check if things were running smoothly.
I was surprised at how quickly I’d slipped into the rhythm here.
Whenever the shop was quiet, I buried myself in the archives, sifting through artifacts and their histories.
Not always, but enough. I’d already uncovered details Beatrice had missed—misread inscriptions, wrong dates.
I corrected them quietly.The morning felt calm—too calm, maybe.
With coffee in hand, I settled at my desk and booted up the computer.
Tugging the elastic from my wrist, I twisted my hair into a messy bun and scanned the bulletin board crowded with notes.
Among them, Damian Miller’s business card.
The calendar reminded me: delivery at 3 PM.
I sipped, skimmed through emails, flagged a few, answered others. Then I updated the stock lists, logging missing receipts into the database. When the admin work was done, I turned to the shipment I’d received the night before—when my phone buzzed. The screen showed an unfamiliar number.
“Daisy Elfhorn.”
“Good morning, Miss Elfhorn. My name is Patricia Kronfort. I’m one of Mr. Miller’s assistants. I’ll be sending you an email with instructions. Follow them exactly.”
“All right,” I said. “May I ask what this is regarding?”
“You’ll find all the details in the email.”
She hung up.
Minutes later, the email arrived. I logged into my Miller & Co. account and read through the instructions. At ten o’clock sharp, I was to deliver artifact XN79335 to counter seven in New York. At 9:30, two bodyguards and a car would be waiting.
My pulse quickened. I went straight to the lower level—what Beatrice had always called the treasure chamber. Pulling a folder from the shelves, I flipped through the pages until I found the right entry. Then I tracked down the storage box.
Inside, swaddled in velvet, lay the artifact.
I peeled back the fabric. My breath caught.
A golden pendant shimmered in the light.
The stones caught the glow and broke it apart—light fracturing as if the bird itself breathed.
Shaped like a phoenix, its wings spread wide, studded with gems—rubies, sapphires, emeralds, diamonds—each one cut with impossible precision.
The piece seemed to pulse, as if the firebird might burst free at any moment.
Recognition hit me. I’d seen it before—in a manuscript locked away in the Vatican Library. That image had burned itself into me. It couldn’t be the real thing. It had to be a forgery. A masterful one, yes—but still.
If it truly was the pendant from that manuscript, I wasn’t holding a fortune.I was holding history itself.
I wrapped the phoenix back into its velvet shroud with careful fingers. Nearly nine o’clock. Time was running. Clutching the box, I hurried upstairs.
Outside, the cool morning air rushed over me, and I pulled my cardigan tighter.
Parked at the entrance was a black Jeep, its paint a glossy mirror.
Ference stood beside it, his presence cutting through the quiet.
His dark suit fit with razor precision, accentuating the kind of strength that made stillness more imposing than motion.
“Good day, Miss Elfhorn,” Ference said in his calm, measured voice, opening the rear door. Inside, Karl greeted me with a brief nod.
“Hello,” I murmured, climbing in. The interior smelled faintly of leather. No sooner had I settled than Ference joined me, taking the seat at my side.
“A very good day to you, Miss Elfhorn. My name is Bastien. I’ll be driving you to New York and back. Are you ready?” the driver asked with a friendly smile.
“Yes.” The box lay across my lap, tucked safely in its bag.
The Jeep’s engine purred to life, low and powerful. As Bastien guided us forward, I leaned into the cool leather, steadying my breath for what lay ahead.
Miller & Co. loomed over the heart of New York, its glass facade catching the sun and throwing it back in blinding shards.
Men and women in tailored suits streamed past with sharp, purposeful strides.
Karl opened my door, and I stepped out, drawing a steadying breath.
Flanked by the guards, I followed him through the crowded lobby.
Behind the counters, women with flawless hair and lacquered smiles greeted clients.
Perfection—manufactured, pressed into human form.
I felt suddenly out of place in this world of crisp lines and sculpted elegance.
I lifted my chin, forcing confidence into my posture.
Counter seven waited ahead, manned by a young woman with perfect blonde waves.
“Good morning. My name is Miss Elfhorn. I’m here to drop something off.”
Her eyes flicked over me, professional and cool. “Miss Elfhorn, Mr. Miller has asked that you come directly to his office. Twenty-seventh floor.”
“The twenty-seventh?” The words slipped out thinner than I intended. She pointed toward the elevators with manicured nails, then turned to Ference.
“You and your colleague may wait here for Miss Elfhorn.”
“We’ll accompany her upstairs,” Ference said evenly, already moving.
I glanced at him, grateful. “Thank you,” I murmured as the three of us stepped into the elevator.
“Of course.” His eyes swept over me, then with a quick motion he straightened the vest slipping from my shoulder. His voice lowered, meant only for me. “Don’t let them rattle you. They all look like dolls.”
A small laugh escaped me, breaking through my nerves. The mirrored walls caught my reflection—pale, tense, not nearly as calm as I wanted to be. The elevator chimed. Twenty-seven lit up, and the doors slid open.
The floor resembled a gallery more than an office: priceless paintings framed in gold lined the walls, and sculptures from across the world stood on pedestals. Even here, the receptionists looked like runway models, every detail immaculate.
“Miss Elfhorn?” one asked.
“We’re bringing her to Mr. Miller,” Ference replied before I could. His quiet steadiness kept me from bolting.
“That won’t be necessary,” the woman said, cool as glass. “You can wait downstairs.”
Ference gave me a final nod—steady, grounding. I clung to it as I followed the woman down the wide corridor. This was supposed to be simple. Just a delivery. So why was I being led to him? I tried to steady my breath, but every step toward that door felt like stepping into something irreversible.
We stopped at the threshold, a gold nameplate catching the light: Damian Miller.
The secretary ushered me inside and shut the door. Shoulders straight, I crossed the room with practiced composure. He would not see hesitation.
Damian sat behind a dark desk, leaning over a document. Even in stillness, power radiated from him—sharp control threaded with something darker. When he looked up, his gaze rolled over me like heat, searing through skin and bone.
My hand tightened on the bag. It felt like the only anchor keeping me steady. My pulse thundered so violently I was sure he heard it, but I kept my expression calm.
“Welcome, Miss Elfhorn.” His voice was deep, stripped of pleasantry. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
Not a request. An order.
My stomach clenched. Slowly, I obeyed, setting the bag carefully across my lap.
Leaning back, his eyes never wavered. “How have the last few weeks been for you?”
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “It’s been… good. A lot to learn. A lot of responsibility.”
No flicker of reaction. “Do you have the artifact?”
I nodded, unfastened the bag, and drew out the case. My hands trembled, clumsy under the weight of history.
He rose, unhurried. Each movement was precise, deliberate.
When he moved, the room obeyed—silent, heavy, inevitable.
I felt it beneath my skin. When he reached me and took the case, his fingers brushed mine—an instant, no more.
But the spark shot through my skin like an electric current.
I hated that I wanted his attention—hated the part of me that warmed under the very thing that should have warned me away.
I swallowed hard, gathering myself. I wasn’t here to falter. I wasn’t here to feel.
He was my boss. Untouchable. Immoveable. A fortress.
And me? I was acting like a foolish girl who couldn’t tell duty from desire. I hated myself for it—for the flutter in my chest, for the secret heat crawling under my skin.
Damian didn’t bother opening the case. He set it aside as if it meant nothing.
“Well done,” he said, his voice threading straight through me, touching places it shouldn’t. “You’ve settled into the shop faster than I expected.”
“Thank you.” My composure wavered as he half-sat on the edge of his desk, braced on either side, close enough to feel. My body went still for a moment—like everything inside me locked up.
Too near.
Too much.
And still, I couldn’t look away. The fabric of his trousers pulled tight, every line sharp, and heat rushed to my face. Damn it. I should stay professional. Instead, I felt myself slipping—undone by one man, one moment.