Chapter 8 8

Three months later.

The Mediterranean sun beat down relentlessly on the deck of the Shadow Trust, a massive, hundred-meter black superyacht anchored off the coast of Monaco.

In the glass-walled penthouse office on the top deck, Etienne Strickland stood staring out at the azure water.

He wore a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to expose the heavy ink on his forearms.

He held a satellite phone to his ear.

"Cut their funding," Etienne said, his voice dropping to a lethal, icy register. "I don't care if they file for bankruptcy tomorrow. Bleed them dry."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto his massive mahogany desk.

He rolled his shoulders, his jaw ticking with irritation.

V. Nash, his head of security, stepped into the office holding a leather-bound dossier.

"The latest reports on the European art syndicates we're tracking for money laundering, boss," Nash said, setting the file down.

Etienne flipped the folder open.

His eyes scanned the pages of financial data until they locked onto a specific paragraph.

It detailed the sudden, explosive rise of an underground artist known as "The Wilds."

Attached was a blurry photograph of a recent painting.

Etienne stared at the chaotic, violent brushstrokes.

A sharp, phantom pain flared in his shoulder where she had bitten him three months ago.

He slammed the folder shut.

"Take the yacht out to international waters," Etienne snapped. "I'm not attending that pretentious art gala on the lower deck tonight."

Down on the middle deck, the atmosphere was entirely different.

A string quartet played softly over the sound of clinking crystal glasses.

Katelyn stood near the railing, a glass of vintage champagne in her hand.

She wore a minimalist, backless black silk slip dress that clung to every curve. Her hair was swept up, her posture straight and commanding.

The terrified girl from California was dead.

She was Kate Vance now, the darling of the Royal College of Art, rubbing shoulders with Europe's elite.

She smiled politely, finishing a conversation in fluent French with a Parisian gallery owner.

As the man walked away, Katelyn turned to look out at the ocean, letting out a quiet sigh of exhaustion.

"Katelyn Reed?"

The voice hit her like a bucket of ice water.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute.

She turned slowly.

Standing there in a garish floral shirt was Julian Thatcher. Eleanor's older brother.

He had a blonde socialite clinging to his arm.

Katelyn's face remained a mask of absolute calm.

"Excuse me?" she said smoothly. "I think you have the wrong person. My name is Kate."

Julian stepped closer, his eyes raking over her body with sleazy amusement.

"Bullshit," Julian laughed. "Everyone in Atherton thinks you're locked up in a padded cell, and here you are, fishing for sugar daddies in Monaco."

The blonde socialite sneered, looking Katelyn up and down like she was trash.

Katelyn's heart hammered against her ribs, but her face didn't twitch.

Julian was a rat. He would sell her location to Arnett for a quick payout in a heartbeat.

She didn't argue.

She simply raised her glass and threw the freezing champagne directly into Julian's face.

Julian gasped, stumbling backward as the alcohol burned his eyes. The blonde screamed.

Before anyone else could react, Katelyn spun around and walked quickly toward the interior glass doors.

Julian wiped his face, his face turning purple with rage. He pulled out his phone and immediately dialed Brien Reed's number.

Katelyn pushed through the doors, her heart racing.

She needed to hide.

She took a wrong turn down a quiet, dimly lit corridor marked "VIP ONLY."

She pushed open a heavy velvet-lined door and stepped inside.

It was a private art gallery.

The room was pitch black, save for a few dramatic spotlights illuminating priceless classical oil paintings.

Behind her, she heard the heavy thud of security boots entering the corridor. They were looking for the woman who assaulted a guest.

Katelyn quickly darted behind a massive marble statue of Apollo, pressing her back against the cold stone.

She held her breath.

Footsteps echoed in the gallery. But they weren't coming from the door.

They were coming from the private elevator at the back of the room.

Etienne had come down to escape his own thoughts.

He stopped in front of a painting, his sharp ears catching the faint rustle of silk.

He turned his head slowly.

His eyes pierced through the shadows, locking onto the edge of a black dress peeking out from behind the statue.

He walked forward, his footsteps completely silent on the thick carpet.

Katelyn squeezed her eyes shut, praying to the dark.

Suddenly, a massive, calloused hand shot into the shadows.

Long fingers clamped around her bare wrist like a steel vice.

With one violent tug, Etienne ripped her out of the darkness and into the spotlight.

Katelyn gasped, her eyes flying open.

She crashed directly into a solid, muscular chest.

She looked up.

The air vanished from her lungs.