Avery was setting up her workspace when Charles arrived. He was carrying three boxes from the estate.
He looked pale. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Where is Onyx?" Avery asked immediately. The panic was instant. Onyx was a black Persian cat, the only living thing she loved.
Charles hesitated. "Master Brandon… he intercepted me at the estate. He was already there, waiting. He said Augustus had given him permission to take Onyx for safekeeping. I couldn't stop him, ma'am."
Avery saw red. The world narrowed to a pinprick of rage. "He kidnapped my cat?"
The new phone-the one Brandon had sent-rang. It was a video call.
Avery answered it, shoving the screen close to her face. "Where is he?"
Brandon appeared on the screen. He was lying on a couch. Onyx was sitting on his chest, purring loudly as Brandon scratched him behind the ears.
"Traitor," Avery muttered at the cat.
"He misses his dad," Brandon teased, grinning.
"You are not his dad!" Avery yelled. "Give him back!"
"I don't know," Brandon mused. "He seems happy. Maybe we can work out a custody arrangement. Dinner? Tonight? You and me?"
"I am not negotiating with terrorists," Avery snapped.
She ended the call abruptly. She didn't open a banking app. Instead, she spoke to Charles, her voice cold as ice.
"Charles, take fifty thousand dollars in cash from the safe. Arrange for a drop. An anonymous courier. Leave it at the front desk of his building, addressed to his security chief. The memo should read: 'For services rendered.' Make it untraceable."
She hung up on him.
On the other side of the city, Brandon waited for a text, a call, a sign of her breaking. When his security chief called an hour later to report a cash delivery, he threw his phone across the room. It shattered against the wall.
Avery turned to Charles. Her face was set in stone.
"Forget the cat for tonight. He's safe. Brandon won't hurt him."
"What are we doing, ma'am?"
"Get the dress ready," Avery said. "The charcoal silk. And call the event organizers for the Shepard Gala. I need to confirm the attendance of a representative from Citrus Ventures."
The Shepard Charity Gala was held at the Met. The ballroom was a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns, the air thick with the scent of money and ambition.
Avery Preston entered the room.
Heads turned, but the conversations only dipped to a whisper. She was wearing a severe, charcoal-grey silk sheath that clung to her form but offered no warmth. It was the dress of a wealthy widow, not a liberated divorcée. Her face was pale, her expression subdued. She looked fragile, haunted, exactly as they expected.
She held her head high, but her eyes scanned the floor, avoiding contact. She spotted him near a secluded alcove by the bar.
Clarke Shepard. The Shark of Wall Street. He was tall, blonde, and looked like he would sell his own mother for a profit margin.
Sloane Shepard, Clarke's sister, waved at Avery from a nearby table. Avery offered a weak, grateful smile and made her way over, using Sloane as a social shield. After a few minutes of feigned social anxiety, Avery excused herself, claiming she needed air.
She moved toward the alcove, pretending to stumble slightly. Clarke Shepard, turning with his drink, caught her elbow to steady her.
"Mr. Shepard," she said, her voice soft, a little breathless. "My apologies."
Clarke looked her up and down. He raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Garrison. I heard you were... indisposed."
"Ms. Preston," she corrected him gently. "And I'm... managing."
He was about to offer a condescending platitude when she looked up, and for a fraction of a second, the fragility in her eyes was replaced by cold, hard steel.
"Actually, Mr. Shepard," she said, her voice dropping so only he could hear, "I'm not here as Avery Preston. I'm here on behalf of Citrus Ventures. We have something you want."
Clarke's boredom vanished. His eyes sharpened. "Citrus Ventures? The new holding company that just acquired a block of Garrison Biotech?"
"The very same," she murmured, pulling her arm away. "Five percent of the voting shares. We understand you've been trying to acquire a controlling stake for two years."
Clarke smiled. It was the smile of a wolf seeing a fellow predator. "An alliance?"
"A mutually beneficial demolition," Avery whispered, before her mask of the grieving divorcée slipped back into place. "My representative will be in touch."
She nodded politely and drifted away, leaving Clarke Shepard staring after her, a look of profound and dangerous curiosity on his face.
