Chapter 8

The apartment was finally quiet.

Eleonore closed the guest bedroom door softly. Kierra had cried until she passed out from exhaustion.

Eleonore walked back to her own bedroom. Her muscles ached.

She unzipped the champagne velvet dress and let it pool around her feet.

Before she hung the dress, she ran her hands down the sides of the heavy fabric, checking the hidden pockets. Nothing. No matchbox, no debris. She shrugged and reached for the garment bag.

She yanked open the bottom drawer of her vanity and pulled out a worn sketchbook – then stopped. She didn't need to bury anything. She simply closed the drawer.

She wanted to lock the whole night out of her life forever.

Two years later.

In those two years, Eleonore had buried herself in Bradley's brutal, relentless training regimen, refining her skills in absolute secrecy until her mentor finally declared her ready. Now, the time had come to step out of the shadows.

The hostile takeover attempt by Carlyle had stalled – Bradley's fierce resistance, combined with a sudden market shift, had forced Keaton Kaufman to retreat, at least for now. The black diamond brooch had been returned the morning after the gala, with a cold note from Dominique: "Ms. Pierce does not accept gifts from strangers." There had been no reply. Kierra had flown to Bali for two months and returned with a new tan and a new boyfriend. Life had moved on.

Except for one thing: the filigree box. Eleonore had never stopped searching for it.

The spring air in Manhattan was crisp.

Eleonore pushed through the heavy glass doors of the Christie's auction preview hall at Rockefeller Center.

She wore a sharp, beige trench coat. Her posture was straighter now. The two years of intense training under Bradley had stripped away her hesitation – not because she had been a novice before, but because she had finally stopped pretending to be one.

She walked past the modern art exhibits and headed straight for the Asian Antiquities section.

Her eyes scanned the rows of bulletproof glass display cases.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Sitting alone in a brightly lit case was an antique gold filigree box. The lid was encrusted with tiny diamonds, forming the crest of the Pierce family.

It was her grandfather's final masterpiece. The lost symbol of her family. She had last seen a photograph of it in the family safe, before the bank seized everything after his death.

Eleonore's throat swelled. Tears burned the backs of her eyes.

She pressed her fingertips against the cold glass. Her heart was beating so fast it hurt her ribs.

She spun around and walked quickly to the VIP client service desk.

"I need to speak to the director," Eleonore told the woman behind the counter. Her voice was shaking. "I want to make a private offer on lot 402. I will pay double the high estimate."

She had a trust fund – her grandfather's last gift – that she had never touched. She would burn every penny of it now.

The woman typed on her keyboard. She looked up, her face apologetic.

"I am so sorry, ma'am. That item was withdrawn from the auction last night. The seller accepted a private buyout."

Eleonore's stomach plummeted. "Who bought it?"

"We cannot disclose client information," the woman said.

Eleonore leaned over the counter. "Please. It belongs to my family. I have to know."

The woman hesitated, looking around the empty lobby. She lowered her voice.

"It was the CEO of the Carlyle Group. Keaton Kaufman."

The name hit Eleonore like a physical punch to the gut.

The scent of cedar – only a memory – suddenly choked her.

She didn't say another word. She turned and ran out of the building.

She flagged down a yellow taxi and threw herself into the back seat.

"Fifth Avenue. The Carlyle Building. Now," she gasped.

Ten minutes later, she ran into the massive, marble‑floored lobby of the Carlyle Group headquarters.

She marched straight to the front desk.

"I need to see Keaton Kaufman," Eleonore demanded, her chest heaving.

The receptionist looked at her with cold, dead eyes.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. But it is an emergency."

"Mr. Kaufman does not see anyone without an appointment. Please leave."

Eleonore stood in the center of the freezing marble lobby. She looked up at the private elevator banks that led to the executive floor.

From her pocket, her phone buzzed. A text from Bradley: Come back. I know why he bought it. He knows who you are.

She squeezed the phone until her knuckles whitened. If Keaton Kaufman already knew she was a Pierce, then sending the brooch hadn't been an apology – it had been a hook. And buying the box wasn't a coincidence. It was a trap.

A crushing wave of despair washed over her. The wall between her and her family's legacy was made of billions of dollars, and she had no way to break it down. Yet.