Part 8:
Why did you think I’d be different? His smile was slow and devastating. Because you’ve been running from your own strength for years. I’m not showing you darkness, Grace. I’m showing you power. And you’ve been hungry for that since long before we met. The only question is whether you’re brave enough to take it. He was right.
I realized as William drove me home through the city lights. I’d spent 6 years being invisible because visible meant vulnerable. But standing in James’ office, learning the truth about his empire, feeling his kiss brand itself into my memory that hadn’t felt vulnerable. It had felt like finally, finally, I’d found somewhere I belonged.
Kate was waiting at my apartment, armed with wine and worry. I told her everything. The truth about James’ business, the plan to spy on Sullivan’s mistress, the kiss that had rewritten every assumption I’d made about this arrangement. “You’re falling in love with a criminal,” she said. Not quite a question.
“I’m falling for a man who treats me like an equal. The criminal part is just context. Grace, that’s not She stopped, seeing my expression. You’ve already decided, haven’t you? You’re all in. I am. I looked at her, my best friend, who’d stood by me through every bad decision and heartbreak. Tell me I’m being reckless. Tell me this is going to end badly.
Would it change your mind if I did? No. Kate sighed, pouring more wine. Then I’ll tell you to be careful, to keep your eyes open, and to remember that powerful men, even ones who kiss you like you matter, still have agendas. “So do powerful women,” I replied, thinking about the version of myself I’d seen reflected in James’ office windows, confident, capable, done apologizing for taking up space.
Friday would be my first test. Sullivan’s mistress, the gallery opening, my debut as something more than the invisible librarian. I was ready. Terrified, but ready. And three days of private dinners with James first meant 3 days to understand exactly who I was becoming and whether I could live with her.
The gallery opening glittered with the kind of people who bought art for investment rather than beauty. I navigated through champagne and conversation, wearing a black dress that was elegant without being memorable. James’s suggestion. Blend in, observe, become part of the background. It reminded me uncomfortably of my library strategy, except this time I was invisible by design rather than fear.
Sullivan’s mistress stood near a particularly ugly abstract piece, her laughter too loud, and her champagne glass perpetually empty. Jennifer Davies. I’d memorized her file over dinner with James the night before. 28. former art history major, current ornament to a dangerous man who’d lose interest in her the moment someone younger appeared.
“That piece is hideous, isn’t it?” I said, moving to stand beside her. She startled, then smiled with genuine relief at finding a kindred spirit. “Absolutely terrible.” But Patrick insists I admire the artist, something about investment potential. Her voice held that particular brittleleness of someone performing a role they hated.
Men always think they know better about art. I commiserated, signaling for champagne. I’m Grace. I’m new to these things. My fianceé drags me to every opening, but I’d rather be home with a good book. Oh, God. Yes. Jennifer’s shoulders relaxed. I’m Jennifer, and your fiance is James Thornton. Do you know him? Her expression flickered.
Recognition, weariness, curiosity. By reputation, Patrick mentions him sometimes. She leaned closer. Conspiratorial. They hate each other, don’t they? Business rivalry, apparently. Though honestly, I try not to pay attention to that side of things. I smiled self-deprecatingly. I’m just a librarian who accidentally got engaged to someone important.
Still figuring out how to navigate all this. The confession was calculated. Jennifer needed to feel superior. Needed to believe I was naive and harmless. From the way her posture softened, it worked. A librarian? That’s so refreshing. Everyone here is so. She gestured vaguely. Artificial. Come on, let’s look at something actually beautiful.
There’s a collection of illuminated manuscripts in the back room that might interest you. We spent the next hour discussing medieval art and book preservation, topics where my genuine knowledge made the connection feel authentic. Jennifer was intelligent. Her degree hadn’t been for show, but trapped in a relationship that valued her appearance over her mind. “I recognized that trap.
I’d lived in it for 2 years with my ex.” “Patrick doesn’t understand why I care about this stuff,” she admitted, studying a 14th century psalter. “He thinks art is just moneyaundering and status symbols. Is that what he does? Money laundering?” I made it sound naive. Curious rather than fishing, among other things.
She drained another champagne flute. He’s been meeting with these Russian men lately. Scary types. They make Patrick seem gentle, which is saying something. Russians. I kept my tone light, interested, but not pressing. The Vulkoff brothers. Patrick says they’re going to make him richer than Thornon.
