The waiting room of the ICU at New York-Presbyterian smelled of bleach and stale coffee. It was the smell of bad news. Colette sat on a hard plastic chair, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone.
Dr. Evans walked out through the swinging doors. He looked tired. He held a clipboard against his chest like a shield.
"Miss Barrett," he said softly.
Colette stood up, her legs trembling. "How is he?"
"His vitals are dropping," Evans said. "We need to move to the next stage of the treatment plan. The experimental protocol we discussed."
"Do it," Colette said immediately. "Please, just do it."
Dr. Evans sighed. He looked down at his shoes. "I can't. The finance department has flagged the account. We need a deposit. Fifty thousand dollars. Today."
Fifty thousand. It might as well have been fifty million.
"I can get it," Colette lied. "Just give me a few days."
"We don't have days," Evans said. "We have hours."
He walked away, leaving Colette standing alone in the hallway. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the observation window. Her father lay in the bed, a tangle of tubes and wires. He looked so small. This was the man who taught her how to mix pigments, how to see the light in a Vermeer.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Meredith.
Attachment: 1 Image.
Colette opened it. It was a photo of a man. He was in his sixties, balding, with a thick neck and eyes that looked like wet stones.
Mr. Gorsky loves art, the text read. Dinner tonight. 7 PM. Le Bernardin. If you don't go, I sign the DNR order myself.
Colette felt bile rise in her throat. She knew who Gorsky was. Everyone in the art world knew. He was a hedge fund manager who collected young female artists the way he collected statues. He was a predator.
She dialed Meredith.
"You're selling me," Colette whispered into the phone. "He's a monster."
"He's a liquidity provider," Meredith said coldly. "And frankly, I'm bored of playing nurse to a vegetable. Go to dinner, Colette. Be charming. Or say goodbye to your daddy."
The line went dead.
Colette dropped the phone. It hit the linoleum floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks. She slid down the wall, burying her face in her knees. A sob ripped through her chest, raw and ugly.
Across town, in a glass tower that pierced the clouds, August Sanders sat in a leather chair that cost more than a Honda Civic.
"Report," he said, not looking up from his tablet.
Preston, his executive assistant, cleared his throat. "We identified the woman. Colette Barrett. Daughter of Richard Barrett, the art dealer."
August swiped on his screen. A photo appeared. It was Colette, taken an hour ago, huddled on the floor of the hospital corridor, crying. It wasn't a flattering picture. It was a picture of absolute defeat.
"Context," August demanded.
"Father is in the ICU. Step-mother cut off funding. She's trying to force Miss Barrett into a... meeting... with Boris Gorsky tonight."
August's finger paused over the screen. He looked at the woman who had left him a hundred dollars. She looked broken.
"Gorsky," August said, the name tasting like ash. "The tax evader?"
"The same. He's looking for a companion."
August looked at the photo again. He remembered the curve of her waist. The smell of her cheap shampoo-vanilla and rain. The audacity of that note.
He needed a wife. The board was breathing down his neck. The trust fund stipulations were clear: marry, settle down, stabilize the stock price. He needed someone desperate enough to sign a contract, but proud enough not to be a leech.
Someone who would tip a billionaire because she didn't want to be in his debt.
"Is the IRS investigation into Gorsky ready to move?" August asked.
"It can be expedited," Preston said.
"Do it." August stood up, buttoning his jacket. "And get the car. Tell legal to bring the standard template, Designation 'Wife.' We'll fill in the details on the way."
"Sir?"
"I'm going to dinner," August said, a shark-like smile touching his lips. "I believe Mr. Gorsky is going to have a scheduling conflict."
