Chapter 3 3

The dining room of the Baker estate was a cavernous space, designed to intimidate rather than welcome. A crystal chandelier the size of a small car hung over the mahogany table, casting prismed light onto the silent family dinner.

Evertt picked at his steak. It was overcooked. Kiley always made sure his steak was medium-rare, perfectly seared. He pushed the thought away aggressively.

At the head of the table sat Evertt's mother, Seraphina. She was inspecting her wine glass for spots. "The help is getting lazy," she muttered. "We need to replace the staff."

Next to Evertt sat Adda. She was wearing a dress that was slightly too tight, slightly too low-cut for a family dinner. She was trying hard, smiling at everyone, cutting her meat with exaggerated elegance.

Evertt looked at the empty chair across from him. That was where Kiley used to sit. She would sit quietly, hands folded in her lap, listening to Seraphina's barbs without complaint. The space felt glaringly empty.

"I wonder where she is tonight," Adda said, her voice dripping with faux concern. "Do you think she found a motel? Or maybe a shelter? It's so dangerous for a single woman with no skills in the city."

Evertt's jaw tightened. He flashed back to the Rolls-Royce. "She's not in a shelter, Adda."

"Oh?" Adda blinked, feigning innocence. "Did she find a friend?"

"She's fine," Evertt snapped. He didn't want to talk about Bradley Stafford. It made him feel small.

Suddenly, a low boom echoed from outside. Then another. The windows rattled slightly in their frames.

"What on earth?" Emerald, Evertt's younger sister, jumped up and ran to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. "Look! Fireworks!"

Evertt stood up and walked to the window. In the distance, over the East River, specifically over the Pier 17 district, the sky was exploding.

Massive bursts of gold and violet illuminated the skyline. It wasn't a public display; it was too concentrated, too curated.

"Someone rented out the entire Pier," Emerald gasped, pressing her face to the glass. "That must cost a fortune. Look at that finish!"

A final, massive barrage went up. The sparks lingered in the air, forming letters made of burning crimson light.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY K

The letters hung in the sky for a solid ten seconds before fading.

Evertt felt the blood drain from his face. K.

"Wow," Adda said, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. "Some rich guy must be really trying to impress his mistress. It's tacky, don't you think?"

Evertt's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a message from Amos, his private secretary.

Boss, you might want to see this. It's trending on Twitter. MysteryBillionaire

Evertt clicked the link. It was a blurry photo taken by a paparazzi from a boat on the river. It showed the deck of a private superyacht docked at Pier 17.

In the center of the frame, bathed in the light of the fireworks, stood a woman. Her back was to the camera, but Evertt knew the curve of that neck. He knew the way she stood.

It was Kiley.

But it wasn't the Kiley he knew. This woman was wearing an Elie Saab gown that shimmered like liquid starlight. Diamonds-massive, pink diamonds that Evertt knew were auction-grade-glittered at her throat and ears.

Standing next to her, with his hand possessively on the small of her back, was Bradley Stafford. He was leaning down, whispering something in her ear, and even from the blurry photo, the intimacy was palpable.

Evertt felt a surge of rage so potent it made his vision blur. He shoved Adda's arms off him.

"Evertt?" Adda stumbled back, shocked. "What's wrong?"

"I need air," he growled.

He turned and marched out of the dining room, ignoring his mother's question about dessert. He grabbed his keys from the foyer bowl and stormed out to the driveway.

He drove fast. Too fast. He tore down the FDR Drive, weaving through traffic, his eyes fixed on the glow still emanating from the seaport.

He didn't know what he was doing. He just needed to see. He needed to know it was real.

He parked illegally near the entrance to Pier 17. He marched toward the boardwalk, but a wall of private security stopped him fifty yards out.

"Private event, sir," a burly guard said, stepping in his path. "Invitation only."

"I... I know her," Evertt stammered, pointing toward the yacht.

"Sure you do, pal," the guard scoffed. "Move along."

Evertt gripped the chain-link fence, staring through the mesh.

On the deck of the yacht, under the soft glow of string lights, he saw them.

Kiley was laughing. She held a flute of champagne, her head thrown back in genuine, unbridled joy. He hadn't seen her smile like that in years. Maybe never. She looked radiant. She looked... free.

Bradley was there, his arm draped casually over her shoulders. He was introducing her to a group of men in tuxedos. Evertt recognized the Governor of New York. He recognized the CEO of Goldman Sachs.

Evertt's mind raced, trying to make sense of the scene. Why would they talk to her? She was a nobody. Then, a bitter realization settled in-they weren't talking to her. They were talking to Bradley Stafford's new arm candy. She was just a novelty to them, a pretty prop draped in borrowed diamonds.

"You left me yesterday," Evertt whispered to the cold wind, his voice cracking. "Less than twenty-four hours. And you're laughing."

He slammed his fist against the fence, the metal rattling. The pain in his hand was sharp, grounding.

On the boat, Kiley paused. She turned her head, looking toward the dark shore, toward where Evertt stood in the shadows. For a second, their gazes seemed to meet across the water-her in the light, him in the dark.

Then, she turned back to Bradley. She said something, and Bradley kissed the top of her head.

Evertt turned away, his chest heaving. He felt sick. He felt angry. But mostly, he felt a terrifying sense of loss that he couldn't name.

"You played me, Kiley," he muttered, walking back to his car. "You played the long game. But I'm not done."