Prologue #3
“The man next door is a lion shifter,” Gerri said, watching Vivienne’s reaction.
“Alpha of the Sterling Pride. One of the oldest and wealthiest prides in Northern Europe. And his mother is standing by the bar right now, telling me he described your daughter’s inventory for forty-five minutes and mentioned her smile exactly once before changing the subject. ”
Vivienne absorbed this how she absorbed case evidence — without flinching, filing every detail, already constructing the argument.
“A shifter. A lion. An alpha.” She was quiet for a moment.
“Lark knows shifters exist — everyone does — but she has no experience with their culture. The possessiveness. The territorial behavior. The...” She waved a hand. “Mane situation.”
“The mane situation,” Gerri repeated, and this time she didn’t bother hiding the laugh.
“Is it going to be a problem?”
“It’s going to be hilarious.” Gerri held up a hand before the cross-examination could begin.
“And compatible. Lions court through gifts — rare, personal, meaningful gifts that prove they’ve been paying attention.
Your daughter built a brand on attention to detail and personal taste.
A lion who courts her will be speaking her language without knowing it. ”
Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. The prosecutor assessing a witness. “And the possessiveness?”
“Lion possessiveness isn’t wolf possessiveness.
Wolves claim. Lions display. He won’t cage her — he’ll curate her into his world and be mortified about it the entire time.
” Gerri polished off the cookie. “Your daughter — a woman who builds villain empires with purple neon and themed lipstick — is about to have a six-foot-three Scandinavian lion alpha leave rare first editions on her counter because he doesn’t know how to say ‘I like you’ without wrapping it in a collectible. ”
Vivienne stared at her. Then, for the first time that evening, she smiled. A real smile, wide and bright, the kind that Gerri imagined her daughter inherited. “That’s perfect.”
“It won’t be perfect. It’ll be a disaster.
A spectacular, entertaining, emotionally devastating disaster where a man who can negotiate seven-figure deals in three languages cannot figure out how to tell a woman her window display is brilliant without it sounding like a performance review.
” Gerri tucked the cookie tray against her hip.
“And then it’ll be perfect. That’s how all the best ones work. ”
Vivienne glanced across the gallery at Astrid Sterling, who was engaged in polite conversation with Colette Keiser with the expression of a woman who had completed her mission and was now running out the clock on social obligation.
Their eyes met — the litigator and the art dealer, the Harlem legacy and the Scandinavian dynasty — and Vivienne gave a nod so slight, it could have been a trick of the gallery lighting.
Astrid returned it.
Two queens. Different chessboards. Same endgame.
Gerri watched the exchange and tucked it into her memory alongside every other maternal conspiracy she’d witnessed in this gallery tonight. The mothers were always ahead. That was the secret of the Book Club nobody talked about — Gerri set the table, but the mothers brought the silverware.
Later — after the gallery emptied and the caterers packed up and the string quartet took their Debussy elsewhere — Gerri stood alone in the Bellhaven Gallery with half a tray of dark chocolate sea salt cookies and a mind full of lions.
She pulled out her phone. Three texts from Suki Saitō (how was the meeting? any new victims? I mean matches?). One from Ozara Stone (The blonde looked promising. Keep me posted.). And one from Colette Keiser that was a lion emoji followed by a question mark.
Gerri typed a response to all three: a single thumbs-up.
She didn’t explain. The mothers’ network would learn the details soon enough.
By next month, Astrid Sterling and Vivienne Coleman would be proper Book Club members, swapping strategies over champagne, united in the sacred maternal mission of fixing their children’s love lives with the combined force of Scandinavian diplomacy and Harlem tenacity.
Two stores. One wall between them.
A lion who handled rare editions with gloved hands and described a woman’s inventory for forty-five minutes while pretending he wasn’t fascinated.
A woman who built a villain empire on joy and lipstick and would walk into that store next door and blow the composure off a Scandinavian king like wind through a mane.
Lions are dramatic, Gerri thought, wrapping the leftover cookies in wax paper with the care of someone who understood that good baking, like good matchmaking, required patience, quality ingredients, and perfect timing.
They need someone who won’t be intimidated by the mane. Or the ego. Mostly the ego. But the courtship...
She tucked the cookie package into her bag, straightened her dress, and clicked off the gallery lights.
The courtship is magnificent. Lions don’t do anything small.
Gerri Wilder walked out into the Meatpacking District night, heels clicking on cobblestone, the spring air warm against her skin, and smiled.
This one was going to be fun.