Chapter 4 - Playing the Part
"They're coming for you," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register of immediate command.
He didn't panic. The corporate executive vanished, replaced by someone cold, calculated, and terrifyingly focused. He shoved the burner phone into his inner coat pocket and grabbed my wrist. His grip was firm, warm, and left no room for hesitation.
"Pack a bag for your seamstress," Julian ordered. "Right now. We have twenty minutes before Vanessa’s people realize the shop is dark and try to breach the rear."
"Clara has a sister in Connecticut," I said, my adrenaline kicking into overdrive. "No one knows about her. She doesn't even have social media."
"Good. My driver will take her there in an unmarked sedan. But you can't go with her."
I yanked my arm back slightly, staring at him. "Excuse me? If I'm in danger, I’m leaving the state."
"If you disappear tonight, Vanessa will know the game is blown," Julian explained, stepping closer. The faint scent of cedarwood and rain clung to his coat. "She knows you saw the phone. If you vanish, her partner will destroy the evidence, liquidate the accounts, and flee the country. The only way we catch the person who killed my father—and the person handing Vanessa that poison—is if you play your role."
"My role?" I let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "I am an independent couturier, Mr. Vance! I drape silk and sew pearls. I don't play decoy for mob hits!"
"You stood down Vanessa Sterling when she tried to crush your seamstress," Julian said, his eyes drilling into mine with an intensity that made my lungs freeze. "You didn't blink. You didn't back down. You have more spine than half the men sitting on my board of directors. And if you help me, I will ensure Clark Couture is funded for the rest of your natural life."
"I don't care about your money," I snapped. "I care about keeping Clara alive. And I care about not being murdered in my own workshop."
"Then trust me," he said. The harshness in his voice cracked, revealing a sliver of genuine, desperate vulnerability. "Please, Avery. If you run, they will find you eventually. The Sterlings own private security firms. If we expose them at the wedding, in front of the press and the federal prosecutors attending as guests, they will never see the light of day again."
I stared at him for three agonizing seconds.
He was asking me to walk straight into the lion's mouth. But he was right. If a family had enough power to cover up vehicular manslaughter and orchestrate the assassination of a billionaire, a simple police report from an independent designer wouldn't keep me safe for long.
"What do you need me to do?" I asked.
Ten minutes later, Clara was whisked out through the loading bay into a black town car, weeping with gratitude as Julian pressed an envelope of cash into her hands and promised her safety.
Once the car turned the corner of the alley, Julian turned back to me.
"Vanessa thinks you're terrified of her lawyers," Julian said. "You are going to call her personal assistant. You will leave a frantic, tearful voicemail saying that you reconsidered, that you are deeply sorry for the misunderstanding, and that you are working overnight to finish the dress personally."
"And the burner phone?"
Julian pulled out an identical black burner casing from his coat. "I had my security team courier a clone unit to my car on the way here. We swapped the SIM card. We keep the original. We leave the clone on your doorstep, under the mat, looking as though it was dropped in the alley during her exit."
"And if she checks the sent messages?"
"The data is mirrored. Every text she sends or receives will route directly to my private server," Julian said. "Now, we have thirty minutes to get you to my townhouse before her scout arrives to monitor your shop."
We slipped into the shadows of the alley just as the rain began to fall in heavy, blinding sheets.
As Julian’s car pulled away from the curb, I looked out the tinted rear window.
A sleek, black SUV with tinted windows and out-of-state plates pulled up to the curb directly in front of Clark Couture. A tall man in a dark trench coat stepped out, paused under the awning, and stared up at the dark, silent windows of my atelier.
My blood ran cold. If we had stayed five minutes longer, we would have been trapped inside.
Julian reached across the leather console, his hand gently covering mine where it rested on my knee.
"You're safe now, Avery," he said quietly.
May you like
"I won't be safe until that monster is in handcuffs," I replied, watching the taillights fade into the Manhattan storm. "Tell me about the warehouse on 14th Street."
***
