13. Liam
LIAM
A line of steam rises from the pan as I tilt it, butter foaming around the sea bass. The kitchen windows frame the sweep of lawn rolling toward the water.
The camera feed flickers. A silver car glides up the curved drive.
I slide the pan off the heat and wipe my hands on a towel.
By the time I reach the foyer, my groundsman has already opened the door. Sabine Tisdale steps in, wearing an immaculate dress suit. Her golden hair is pulled back, and in her grip, two slim leather cases.
“That’s new!” She tips her chin toward the chandelier above us. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Murano glass. Hand-blown by a craftsman who’s been at it for forty years. We met in Venice after I told him the chandelier he’d installed at the museum was trying far too hard.”
She arches a brow. “You criticized a Murano master?”
“I bought him a drink first,” I say. “He said Americans overcompensate with scale. I told him Italians hide behind ornament. He’s been trying to prove me wrong ever since.”
She gives a soft tsk. “Are you cooking?”
“My own catch. I was hoping you’d join me.”
“Can’t. Sorry. Iris has declared an emergency.”
She looks too composed for anything involving a delivery room.
“What kind?”
“Car seat. Apparently the hospital won’t release the baby unless it passes inspection. Marcus is currently reading three manuals.”
I picture him at his kitchen island, glasses low on his nose, cross-referencing safety ratings.
She sets the cases she’s bringing on the coffee table. “I brought options,” she says.
Marcus may have stepped aside, but Sabine, his PA, remains the bridge between our worlds. She handles the names, the paperwork, the venues, the ghosts.
She opens the first case.
Two masks rest against dark velvet—Stag and Eagle.
“For Rochemont,” she says. “I took creative liberties.”
I study them both. The stag is cut in deep matte brown, the antlers simplified and swept back so the wearer can move without catching on anything foolish. The eagle is leaner, carved in black and burnished steel, the beak angled, the eye slashed sharp.
“Look great. Either would suit,” I say. Then I nod toward the second case. “That one for Mercer?”
Her eyes narrow, assessing. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to see them?”
“I’m sure they’re fine. I just need to choose one.”
She tosses me a crooked smile. “How about you, Hunt? Thinking of bringing Panther back? Or are you staying with Red Fox?”
I run my finger along the edge of the eagle mask. It would flatter Victor’s ego, which is why I set it aside. The stag is simpler. A man worth trusting shouldn’t need to puff up his feathers. That’s what I want him to be for Helena.
“I don’t know if I’ll even play, Sabine.”
Her mouth curves. “Too close to the heart?”
I meet her gaze.
“That implies I have one.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, Hunt,” she says, folding the case shut halfway before rising.
“Say hello to Iris and Marcus,” I reply. “Tell him to trust German design.”
“For the car seat?” she asks.
“For anything meant to survive impact.”
She arches a brow. “You’re comparing fatherhood to a crash test?”
“I’m not comparing anything.”
She dismisses me with a laugh and moves toward the door. Then she pauses, turning to me. “I’m surprised you’ve never been tempted.”
“Tempted by what?”
“Fatherhood.”
The word settles between us.
“You’d be cooking for three,” she says. “Messy. But something you might get used to. Maybe even enjoy.”
I scoff lightly. “Go. Iris is waiting. And thanks for sending the file on Helena Mercer. I haven’t read it yet. I will.”
“You should,” she says. “She’s…compelling.”
“And him?”
“Victor?” A small shrug. “One page. Nothing alarming. Otherwise I wouldn’t have spent time selecting masks.”
I nod.
“Just something worth watching,” she adds then opens the door. “Tell me when you’ve decided.”
The door clicks shut behind her and I return to the kitchen. I plate the fish with the shallot glaze, wipe the rim clean, and carry it outside.
The water stretches wide and uninterrupted in front of me. I make most of my decisions here. Markets fluctuate, people come and go, but water holds its course.
The sea bass flakes clean under my fork.
The Velvet Trap tablet rests beside my glass. The network is sealed and self-contained. Data moves only when authorized.
I unlock it and open Sabine’s file.
Helena Mercer.
Seven hundred dollars in her personal account.
Her sister has just started college at Stanford, her tuition paid by Helena.
Anna Mercer draws regularly from her late husband’s trust. Helena works sixty hours a week running her animal photography business.
Contracts steady. Clients loyal. Revenue modest.
I scroll.
The Silver Paw Ball incident. Police confirmed the attack at the ball traced back to an earlier altercation between Helena and Gordon Cane, son of Aaron Cane, senior partner at one of the city’s most established law firms.
According to the report, she smashed through a glass wall at the Cane residence in Rye to reach her sister.
Alarm sounding. Neighbors alerted. She found Gordon upstairs, intoxicated and reaching.
She struck first, then intercepted the gun when he reached for it and held him long enough for her sister to get clear.
Hell. That wasn’t an altercation.
That was war instinct.
The situation resolved once video evidence surfaced. Aaron Cane managed the fallout. His son is no longer in New York.
I set the fork down.
Mercer’s got fire. She’ll make the game more volatile. It’s a smart move. Yet—
It also makes me want to step into her path and watch what she does.
Christ.
I cut the thought off before it turns into something reckless. Victor’s file replaces her.
One page. Capital backing announced but not yet locked in. The framework stands. The numbers hold. No buried liabilities or offshore smoke. The deal is conditional, but he told me it was secured.
The Rochemonts built their name on audacity.
Victor likes to call me the betting man, but I’ve never gambled the way his family does.
They stake reputation as easily as capital.
In the golden age of Wall Street, they played high and walked away with headlines.
They also bled for it. These days they’re still in the game, but in mid-tier, no longer the predators who moved markets with a raised eyebrow.
I think about what Sabine compiled. What Victor told me wasn’t false. The signatures hover within reach, close enough for certainty.
I let my gaze drift beyond the terrace. The tide rolls in without noise, reshaping the shoreline in increments.
That’s how I move.
Victor wants this game. Maybe he thinks it proves something. Maybe he needs it to.
I finish my bourbon, carry the tablet inside, and leave it on the counter.
The second mask case waits on the coffee table where Sabine left it. I sit across from it, aware that the decision has already been made somewhere beneath the surface.
Then I open it.
The first mask is framed in orchids with ivory petals edged in gold, intricately composed, designed for someone who wants to be admired.
The second is stark. Black and white. Wings swept back from the temples, sharp lines curving toward the cheekbones. Angel above. Devil in the cut of the eyes.
I lift it. It fits the curve of my hand as though it was shaped there. An exhale slips out of me. “My God…”
Hellion.
She fought like one, walked into fire like one.
And I’m about to invite her into something that makes a broken window and a drunken law student look like a warm-up.
I lower the mask back into its cradle.
I picture her in it. Moving through what I’ll build, doing what she does. And at the end of it, when the game is over…
Does she walk out of this stronger, or does she just walk out?
For the first time, The Velvet Game feels personal.