Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
brIAR
I wake late, sunlight already filling the bedroom. It takes a moment to figure out where I’m, my brain slow and foggy, my body heavy. When I shift, pain streaks along my jaw and lip, a sharp reminder of yesterday.
I sit up and press my fingers gently to the butterfly bandage.
My injury is tender and swollen, but not as bad as I feared.
I check my reflection in the mirror across from the bed.
My lip is a dark purple, but at least not too bad.
Faint bruises mark my jaw. Unfortunately, that part of my body looks like I lost a fight with a steel door. Which, technically, I did.
But I’m alive. And I’m safe here.
Safe. God, that word feels like a lie. But I want it to be true so badly.
I pull my hair into a messy bun, throw on leggings and a soft sweater, and step out into the main room. Stacy is already awake and curled on the sofa with a coffee, her laptop open, spreadsheets glowing across the screen.
She looks up and smiles. My cousin tries to hide her worry, but I see it anyway.
“Hey,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” I admit as I drop beside her. “But better.”
She watches my face carefully. “You should rest today. Lucien said not to worry about work.”
I shake my head. “I would rather be busy. If I sit still long enough, I think too much.”
She nods. “Then we work.”
I open my laptop and pull up the event files for the fundraiser at the Met.
The giant black tie charity event is only days away, and there is still too much to finalize.
Stacy leans over my shoulder as we scroll through the guest list, confirming dignitaries, CEOs, philanthropists, and the small handful of celebrities expected to attend.
“Do we want a red carpet or just controlled entry at the museum entrance?” Stacy asks.
“A red carpet,” I say, rubbing my lip gently. “It’s expected. Media will be there either way. Might as well make it work in our favor.”
“Agreed,” she says, typing quickly. “But we want it short. No long queues. And we need photographers vetted.”
I mark it on my notes. We move to the seating plan, placing donors strategically near people they can impress or persuade. Supporters near the stage. High-value buyers near the auction area. The work feels oddly soothing. Logical. Predictable. Order in a world where everything has felt unhinged.
Next we review staffing numbers for catering and serving, security coverage inside and outside, and final head counts for each entry point. I call the Met contact and confirm restricted-access hallways and emergency exits. Everything is lining up.
For two hours, we work in comfortable silence, our laptops open, coffees refilled. For a little while it feels normal. Just two women doing their jobs in a sunlit apartment in Manhattan.
And then everything shatters.
My phone buzzes. The sound slices through the quiet apartment, too loud, too sharp. I reach for it without thinking, expecting a message from Lucien.
It is not from Lucien.
It’s from Matteo.
I freeze. I stare at the screen. The words blur for a moment before coming into focus like something emerging from fog.
You lied to me. You said you would leave him. If you think you can make a fool of me again, you are wrong. I don’t appreciate being threatened by your boyfriend. You will meet me tomorrow at The Fifth Floor. We are going to talk about our future.
My stomach drops. The room tilts.
Oh God. Not again. Not today. Why won’t he leave me alone?
Stacy notices the tension that no doubt is radiating off me instantly. “What is it?” she asks quietly. Her voice shifts from relaxed to sharp in one heartbeat.
I don’t answer. I hand her the phone instead. She reads fast, eyes widening and filling with fury. “Oh my God, Briar. No. Absolutely not. You need to tell Lucien.”
“I will,” I say, but my voice is thin. Will I? Should I? If I tell Lucien, he will go after Matteo and someone will wind up dead. Probably Matteo. Maybe Lucien too. I can’t live with that. I can’t be the reason he loses everything.
Stacy puts her hand on mine. “Look at me. You cannot meet him.”
“I know.” But doubt creeps in anyway. Do I know? Would meeting him make him stop? If I can talk to him, reason with him, remind him that we are done?
“He’s dangerous,” Stacy says, forcing calm into her voice for my sake, but I hear the tremble. “You can’t trust him. He nearly killed you yesterday.”
“I know.” My throat closes around the words. “But if we meet in public, what could he do? There will be people. Cameras. He wouldn’t dare try anything.”
Stacy stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. “You can’t honestly believe that.”
“I got away once,” I whisper. “He signed the divorce. He let me go. Maybe I can make him understand that there is no future. I just want him to let me move on.”
“Lucien will lose his mind if you go.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between us. I feel like I’m being pulled apart. Between fear and responsibility. Between survival and guilt. Between past and future. I don’t know how to choose. I don’t want to choose at all.
“I can’t let him think he won,” I finally say. “I can’t let him control my life forever. I need to end this. Really end it.”
Stacy covers her face with her hands, then drops them and exhales hard. “If you insist on doing something unbelievably stupid, it needs to be on your terms. Change the location. Somewhere public. Somewhere safe. Somewhere near a police precinct.”
I nod, fingers shaking as I type.
I will meet you. Different location. The cafe across from the 10th police precinct, Manhattan.
He responds immediately.
Fine. Tomorrow at eleven.
I stare at the message, my heart racing, breath shallow.
What have I done? If this goes wrong, I could die. And if Lucien finds out I saw him behind his back he will never forgive me. Possibly kill me as well… I shake the idea away immediately. Lucien would never hurt me, not even if he were angry.
Stacy watches me, eyes glossy with fear. “You need to tell Lucien. Please. If something happens…”
I swallow, hard. “I will. I just need a minute to figure out how.”
She touches my hand, squeezing it a little. My cousin is concerned, and so am I, but I need to talk sense into Matteo. Give it one last chance to make him move on, before I had to, and not in New York.
“You aren’t alone. I’m right here, and if you want me to come tomorrow, I will.”
I nod again, tears burning behind my eyes. “I’m scared,” I whisper. “But Matteo won’t hurt me so close to law enforcement, nor so publicly. He’s not that bold.”
“He’s a bully, so it’s no secret they’re spineless creatures.”
The Met seating charts blur. The security notes fade. I close my laptop slowly. Nothing matters now. Not the gala. Not the donors. Not the event.
Only survival.
Only the truth I’m terrified to speak.
Tomorrow everything could change. Tomorrow I could lose everything. Or save it. I don’t know which.