“Leave them alone,” I say, voice hardening. It’s not a request.
I yank a bundle of paper towels from the dispenser and wipe my hands, bracing myself for what I know is coming. Only then do I turn and face her.
And—God help me—she hasn’t changed a bit. Still stunning. Still dangerous.
Long black hair cascading down her back like something out of a perfume ad, and those ridiculous mismatched eyes—one emerald, one icy jade—like pools of mint jelly you could drown in if you’re not careful.
Beautiful. Bewitching.
Mimi.
Exactly how I remember.
And somehow, standing here in front of her, I feel like that same foolish man from all those years ago—the one who thought he could help her and weather the storm she carried.
If only I’d known there was astorm.
I remember it clearly, as if it just happened yesterday. The way she strolled into my life so effortlessly, like a ray of sunshine cutting through a gray Manhattan afternoon. She was just eighteen then—barely more than a girl—but already electric with potential.
It started right here, in the heart of New York City’s art district.
She was new to the scene but was quickly making a name for herself in our close-knit community of artists. There was something uncanny about her talent—raw and untamed. It definitely didn’t feel learned; more like summoned, as if she’d been born with secrets in her hands.
No doubt, she was artfully gifted. Sketches so unique, they were mindboggling. Undisputedly a child prodigy. And a free-thinker, much like myself.
But her mind was a gallery of madness—brilliant, chaotic, and full of hidden doors. I was drawn to her instantly. The connection… inexplicable, unsettling. Like she could see parts of me I kept buried—the wanting, the weakness—and knew exactly how to use them.
But now, years later. I know better.
Her appearance in my life that day wasn’t by chance. It was calculated. Masterfully so. She had something I wanted. Something Iachedfor. And I didn’t hesitate to take what she offered.
I was a willing participant.
And Elijah would never forgive me if he knew.
Shaking the memory loose, I blink back to the present as Mimi extends her hand, palm up, smirk as bold as her smile.
“Let me get my checkbook,” I mutter, motioning toward the messenger bag slung in the corner of the studio.
She clicks her tongue. “Cash, Gabriel. I only accept cash.”
And there’s that smile again, like this is just another casual deal between old friends.
Let me be clear:it isn’t.
That friendship ended the first time she blackmailed me.
“Okay, Mimi. Cash it is,” I say tightly. “But promise me this is the last time. I don’t want to see you again. Stay away from me—and stay the hell away from my family.”
She tilts her head, her silky black hair falling forward as she grimaces.
“Promises, promises,” she sings.
And then…
Silence.
It returns like a wave crashing over everything.
