The Kirk Gallery in SoHo loomed against the gray sky, a monument to artistic passion that was rapidly being dismantled by corporate greed.
Grace directed the driver to her small apartment above the gallery. The front door to the gallery itself was chained, a notice of seizure plastered over the glass. She dragged her battered suitcase through the side entrance. The stairwell was silent, the worn wooden steps groaning under her weight. A former colleague hurried past on the landing below, keeping her head down, pretending Grace wasn't there.
"I thought you'd be in a jail cell by now," a voice drawled from inside her apartment. The door was ajar.
Collins Raymond sat on her small sofa, sipping her whiskey. He hadn't bothered to use a glass.
Grace tightened her grip on the suitcase handle. "Get out of my apartment, Collins."
She headed for the bedroom. She just needed her clothes, her laptop, and the few sketches she had managed to save.
Collins followed her, his presence filling the small space. He was Alaric's opposite-ostentatious where Alaric was restrained, his suit a flashy Italian cut, his cologne overpowering.
"I heard the news," Collins said. "You're marrying Hunter? Congrats on becoming a corporate asset."
"Move, Collins," Grace said, trying to step around him.
Collins stuck out a foot. It was childish, petty, and effective. Grace tripped, stumbling forward. She braced herself for the impact of the floor, but instead, she slammed into a hard chest.
Hands gripped her arms. The smell of sandalwood and overly sweet cologne filled her nose. Grace gagged.
She shoved herself away, looking up into the face of her ex-boyfriend, Tyler Brock.
"Careful there, babe," Tyler said, his smile slick and practiced. "You look shaky. Facing a subpoena?"
Grace felt her skin crawl. Tyler had been her gallery's financial advisor, until she found him in this very hallway, falsifying provenance documents.
"Don't touch me," Grace snapped.
Collins giggled, linking his arm through Tyler's. "Oh, leave her alone, Ty. She's stressed about her merger. The biggest, most hostile takeover of her life."
"Actually," Grace said, straightening her spine. "The lawsuit has been dropped."
Tyler frowned, his brow furrowing. "Grace, don't be stupid. You know what those documents implicated. You don't have a choice."
Grace pushed past them into her old bedroom. It was already half-empty, tagged with seizure notices on her most valuable art books. She opened her suitcase and started throwing clothes in-jeans, sweaters, anything she could grab.
The door clicked shut behind her. Tyler was there. Alone.
"Get out," Grace warned.
Tyler stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Look, I know you're desperate. If you need money... I can help. I can make the documents disappear." His eyes raked over her body. "We could work something out. A loan. For old times' sake."
Grace stared at him, disgust pooling in her stomach. "I have a husband, Tyler."
Tyler laughed. It was a barking, ugly sound. "A husband? Who? Some public defender you picked up?"
Grace whipped out her phone and shoved the photo of the certificate in his face. "Hunter. Alaric Hunter."
Tyler squinted at the screen, then snorted. "Hunter? I know three Hunters. One is in rehab, and the other two are in jail. Good luck with that."
The door burst open. Collins stood there, eyes blazing. "What are you doing in here with her?"
Tyler jumped back, raising his hands. "She was trying to bribe me! To destroy evidence! I told her no!"
Grace let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You are unbelievable."
"You're leaving?" Collins screeched. "Your father is going to kill you! Hunter will bury you both!"
"Let him try," Grace muttered. She zipped the suitcase and shoved past them, heading for the stairs.
She made it to the bottom step just as the front door slammed open. Richard Kirk stormed in, his face a mask of red fury. He was clutching a sheaf of papers-a contract, torn in half.
"You!" He pointed a shaking finger at Grace. "What did you do? My deal with Collins is dead! He says Hunter voided the side agreement!"
Grace gripped the handle of her suitcase until her knuckles ached. The storm had arrived.
