Chapter 4
THE CALL
KAIDEN
She waves at me with a quick, involuntary flutter of her fingers. Before I can form a response, she turns and disappears in the crowd.
I stand there with the ticket in my hand, replaying the last ten minutes.
My instinct is to look for the angle. In my world, there is always a pitch, a business card, or a hidden camera waiting to capture a Hammond in a staged moment of charity.
I wait for her to circle back. I wait for a journalist to emerge from behind a pillar.
Nothing happens.
The lobby hums with quiet conversation. Visitors drift past, yet I remain frozen. I don't even know her last name. I shouldn’t care, but the spontaneity of her reaction leaves me unprepared. She wasn't performing. She was just... being.
I turn toward the east wing, away from where she went.
I came here to clear my head of my father’s voice and the corporate espionage threats lurking around ELK.
The first room is full of pieces that feel aggressive and demanding.
I stop in front of a sculpture that looks like a scream frozen in metal and wait to feel something, anything, but there is only the familiar, heavy vacuum of my own exhaustion.
My attention keeps snagging on things that aren't hanging on the walls. A flash of blonde hair in my peripheral vision makes my pulse jump. I tell myself I’m being thorough. If I’m drifting toward the west wing, it’s purely to ensure I haven’t been followed. It is a security check, not a pursuit.
I find her after four rooms.
She is standing in front of a sculpture of tangled wire.
Her head is tilted, and her entire body leans into the art with focus.
She pulls a small notebook from her bag and begins to sketch.
Her hand moves in quick, sure strokes. I want to see what she’s capturing, but I stay back, lurking in the shadows of a large installation.
She pushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, but it frees itself almost immediately. With a soft huff of irritation, she rummages in her bag and produces a plastic claw. In three efficient moves, she gathers the honeyed mass and pins it up.
I have never been a man who fixated on a woman's neck, but I can't look away from hers.
The skin is pale and looks impossibly soft, the curve of her nape revealing a vulnerability that hits me like a physical blow.
She is bent over her sketchbook with a feverish energy that reminds me of my own late nights over a new blueprint.
I should stop acting like a man who has never seen a woman before. Instead, I find a position where I can watch her without being obvious. I tell myself it’s caution.
The other explanation is that she feels like a language I don't speak.
She moves to the next room, and I follow at a distance. I lose her between a video installation and a gallery of mirrors.
I am about to turn toward the exit when I see the painting.
It takes up nearly the entire wall. It is a landscape of gray and charcoal, heavy and dark like a storm that has been building for decades. Cutting through the center of that darkness is a single, defiant streak of blue.
I can’t look away. The tension I’ve been carrying since my father’s call begins to ease. The painting asks nothing of me. It doesn’t want my name or my compliance. It just exists, fighting its way through the gloom.
I understand this one.
I don't hear her approach, but I feel the shift in the air. A warmth settles at the edge of my awareness. I turn my head slowly and find her standing a few feet away. Her sketchbook is open, and her hand is moving. She isn't looking at the painting.
Our eyes meet, and she freezes. Her cheeks flush a deep, beautiful pink. She snaps the sketchbook shut against her chest as if she’s been caught stealing.
“You found me,” I say. My voice sounds lower than usual. I wonder why I said it like that, as if I had been waiting for her to find me.
“Sorry, I wasn’t—” She stops, because we both know what she was doing. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
I glance at the book pressed to her heart. “Were you drawing?”
“The painting,” she says too fast. “I was drawing the painting.”
I lift an eyebrow. She is a terrible liar, and I find it oddly charming. “What do you think of it? The painting.”
She turns to face the canvas, and I watch the way her shoulders soften. “It’s the one I came to see. My friend told me about it. She called it life-changing.”
“And? Is it?”
“I don't know yet.” She tilts her head, studying the blue streak. “Ask me in an hour.”
She delays her answers as if she is afraid to commit. I find myself wanting to know why.
“What do you see?” she asks, turning back to me.
I consider giving a shallow answer, but the honesty in her gaze stops me. “A fight. Like someone trying to break through something. Or out of something. I haven't decided which.”
“Maybe it’s both,” she whispers.
We stand side by side in the silence. It isn't awkward anymore. It is almost comfortable.
Her phone buzzes in her bag. She ignores it. It buzzes again and then a third time.
“You should get that,” I say.
“It’s just my friend.” She digs through her bag anyway, but her expression changes when she looks at the screen. “Hello?”
I can’t look away. Her free hand presses against the wall to stay upright.
“Yes?” she whispers. “Yes. I’m here. I accept. Thank you. I absolutely accept.”
Her voice cracks. When she hangs up, her eyes are wet. Tears slide down her cheeks before she can stop them. She wipes at them with the back of her hand, laughing even as she sobs.
“Sorry,” she manages. “I’m not usually—this isn’t—”
My hand is in my pocket, and the handkerchief is out, offered to her before I can second-guess myself. She stares at the square of cotton as if I’ve handed her a foreign artifact.
“Here,” I say.
She reaches with shaking hands and dabs at her eyes.
“Thank you. I’ll wash it and—” She looks up at me. “Actually, I have no idea how to return this to you.”
“Keep it.”
“I can’t keep your handkerchief.”
“You can.” The words come out softer than I intended. I’m not a man who gives things away easily, but the sight of her tears has bypassed my usual defenses. “Consider it a celebration gift.”
“A used handkerchief. Very generous.”
I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “I’m a giver.”
She laughs. It’s a mess of a sound, cracked and soaked. My hand flexes at my side, and I don’t know why.
“I got a job,” she says. “I actually got a job.”
“In this economy?” The skepticism is out before I can stop it. “Congratulations. That is not a small thing.”
“Well, a friend sent an internal referral, so—”
“So you got an interview.” I cut her off. My voice is sharper now, the CFO in me taking over. “The referral gets you in the door. It doesn’t get you the job. Don’t give the credit away.”
She blinks at me, surprised by the intensity of my words.
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” she says.
My jaw clenches. I think of my father and every success he has tried to claim as his own. “Something like that.”
She leaves it at that, and I am grateful for the restraint.
“Months,” she says, taking a shaky breath. “So many months of rejections and I was starting to think—” She stops and swallows hard. “Sorry. You don’t need my life story.”
“You’re allowed to be happy,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I said that to anyone, including myself.
She looks at the painting, then back at me. “Ask me now.”
“What?”
“If it’s life-changing.” She smiles, and it is the most real thing I’ve seen in years. “The answer is yes.”
I don't want her to walk away yet.
“There is a café upstairs,” I say. I hope I don't sound as awkward as I feel. “Let me buy you a coffee. To thank you for the ticket and to celebrate your news.”
She hesitates. I brace for the no.
“Okay,” she says. “But I’m getting a pastry too. I think I’ve earned it.”
“Let’s see what we can find.” The word comes out steady. The rest of me isn't.
I gesture for her to lead the way. As she moves past, I catch her scent for the first time.
It isn't a heavy perfume. It’s something clean, like orange blossom and soap.
I am too close. I know I am crowding her, but I can’t seem to put distance between us.
We weave through the galleries toward the stairs.
A group of tourists blocks the walkway, and I angle my body, positioning myself between her and the crowd.
She glances up at me before quickly looking away.
She speeds up. I match her. She slows down. I do the same. I am tracking her movements like a predator.
We reach the stairs, and she hits them too fast. Her foot catches the edge of the first step, and she pitches forward.
My arm is around her waist before I know it’s moving. I pull her back against my chest. She weighs less than she should. Her heat bleeds through my suit like it's not there.
“Careful.”
My mouth lands closer to her ear than I intended. She turns her head. Gold flecks in her big hazel eyes. Her breath hitches.
“Sorry,” she whispers, shaking herself free. “I’m clumsy. It’s a whole thing. Thanks for the... catching.”
I release her slowly. My hand lingers on the curve of her waist for a second too long.
“Anytime,” I say.
She continues going up the stairs at a careful pace, one hand brushing the rail.
I’m in trouble.