Chapter 3 No.3

It was late. Kaylee was asleep, sprawled out like a starfish in the massive king bed. Katarina needed air. She needed a drink. She opened the door to her suite quietly and stepped into the corridor.

At the far end of the hall, near the window that overlooked the city lights, a small figure stood still.

Katarina frowned. "Kaylee?"

The child was wearing pajamas-blue silk ones that looked exactly like the set she had bought Kaylee in Paris. The height was the same. The messy dark hair was the same.

"Baby, what are you doing out here?" Katarina asked, her voice soft.

The child didn't turn around. He was staring at a painting on the wall, an abstract swirl of reds and blacks.

Katarina walked over. Panic fluttered in her chest. Sleepwalking? Kaylee had never done that before.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around the child from behind. She pulled the small body against her legs, resting her chin on the top of the dark head.

"You gave Mommy a scare," she whispered, breathing in the scent of shampoo.

The body in her arms went rigid.

It wasn't a normal reaction. A sleepy child melts into their mother. This child turned into stone.

But he didn't pull away.

Katarina frowned. She felt the shoulders. They felt... broader? Harder?

The child leaned back against her, just an inch. It was a hesitant, starving movement. As if he had never been held before and didn't know the mechanics of it, but his cells were screaming for it.

Katarina spun him around gently. "Kaylee, look at me-"

She stopped.

The face looking up at her was Kaylee's face. The same large, dark eyes. The same button nose. The same curve of the chin.

But the expression was entirely wrong.

Kaylee was a firecracker, full of mischief and light. This child's eyes were deep pools of silence. They were old eyes in a young face. And there was a sadness in them that punched Katarina straight in the gut.

"You're not Kaylee," she whispered, stepping back.

The boy stared at her. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He stared at her face with an intensity that was almost painful. He reached out a hand, his small fingers hovering near the fabric of her silk robe, trembling.

"I... I'm sorry," Katarina stammered. She crouched down so she was eye-level with him. "I thought you were my daughter. You look just like her."

The boy lowered his hand. He looked at his feet.

"Hey," she said gently. "Are you lost? Where are your parents?"

The boy didn't answer. He glanced at the service door near the elevators. It was slightly ajar. Katarina realized he must have used the housekeeping cart's passage to slip out while the guards were changing shifts. Clever. Too clever for a normal child.

Suddenly, the elevator doors at the end of the hall dinged. Two massive bodyguards burst out, their hands hovering near their jackets.

"Master Draven!" one of them shouted.

Katarina instinctively moved between the men and the boy. She stood up, her posture shifting from mother to protector in a split second. "Back off," she snapped.

The guards stopped, confused by the woman shielding their charge.

"Step away from the boy, ma'am," the lead guard said, his voice tense.

"Is he yours?" Katarina demanded. "Why is he wandering the halls alone at midnight?"

"Draven," a deep, baritone voice echoed from the open door of the suite at the opposite end of the hall.

Dimitri Shaffer stepped out. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the column of his throat. He looked tired.

He saw Katarina standing near his son. His face hardened instantly.

"Get away from him," Dimitri ordered. It wasn't a shout; it was a command spoken with absolute authority.

Katarina bristled. "I found him alone. I didn't touch him."

"I saw you holding him," Dimitri said, walking closer. He moved like a storm front. He reached down and scooped the boy up.

The boy, Draven, looked over Dimitri's shoulder at Katarina. His eyes were wide, pleading. He reached his hand out toward her again, just a twitch of his fingers.

Katarina felt a phantom pain in her chest.

"He was looking at the painting," Katarina said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "He seems... lonely."

Dimitri glared at her. "My son is autistic. He doesn't like strangers. He doesn't like to be touched. If you touched him, you likely terrified him."

"He didn't look terrified," Katarina said. "He looked like he wanted a hug."

"You don't know anything about him," Dimitri spat. "Stay away from my family."

He turned and carried the boy back into his suite. The heavy door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Katarina stood alone in the hallway. Her skin tingled where she had held the boy. It wasn't just a physical sensation. It was a resonance. A vibration in her blood.

She walked back to her room. She checked on Kaylee, watching the rise and fall of her daughter's chest.

Her phone rang. It was Francis. Again.

She picked it up, anger flaring to mask the confusion she felt about the boy.

"I'm not signing, Francis," she said into the phone.

"Then I'm auctioning your mother's jewelry collection tomorrow," Francis said. "Starting with her wedding ring. If you aren't at the gala to stop me, it's gone."

Katarina gripped the phone until the screen creaked. "You wouldn't."

"Try me. Be there, Katarina. And try to look presentable. Though I doubt any dress can hide your failures."

Katarina hung up. She threw the phone onto the sofa.

She walked to the closet and unzipped a garment bag. Inside was a dress she had been saving. It was a weapon made of silk and vengeance.

"I'll be there," she whispered.

Next door, inside the penthouse suite, Dimitri put Draven down on his bed.

"Did she hurt you?" Dimitri asked, checking the boy's arms.

Draven shook his head. He walked over to his easel. He picked up a charcoal stick.

He began to draw. Fast, frantic strokes.

Dimitri watched. Usually, Draven drew geometric shapes or buildings. Tonight, he drew a figure. A woman. She didn't have a face, but she had long hair and she was surrounded by a halo of light.

Dimitri frowned. He looked at the drawing, then at the wall that separated them from the woman next door.

"She's trouble, Draven," Dimitri muttered. "I can smell it."

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