“Agreed,” she says, typing quickly. “But we want it short. No long queues. And we need photographers vetted.”
I mark it on my notes. We move to the seating plan, placing donors strategically near people they can impress or persuade. Supporters near the stage. High-value buyers near the auction area. The work feels oddly soothing. Logical. Predictable. Order in a world where everything has felt unhinged.
Next we review staffing numbers for catering and serving, security coverage inside and outside, and final head counts for each entry point. I call the Met contact and confirm restricted-access hallways and emergency exits. Everything is lining up.
For two hours, we work in comfortable silence, our laptops open, coffees refilled. For a little while it feels normal. Just two women doing their jobs in a sunlit apartment in Manhattan.
And then everything shatters.
My phone buzzes. The sound slices through the quiet apartment, too loud, too sharp. I reach for it without thinking, expecting a message from Lucien.
It is not from Lucien.
It’s from Matteo.
I freeze. I stare at the screen. The words blur for a moment before coming into focus like something emerging from fog.
You lied to me. You said you would leave him. If you think you can make a fool of me again, you are wrong. I don’t appreciate being threatened by your boyfriend. You will meet me tomorrow at The Fifth Floor. We are going to talk about our future.
My stomach drops. The room tilts.
Oh God. Not again. Not today. Why won’t he leave me alone?
Stacy notices the tension that no doubt is radiating off me instantly. “What is it?” she asks quietly. Her voice shifts from relaxed to sharp in one heartbeat.
I don’t answer. I hand her the phone instead. She reads fast, eyes widening and filling with fury. “Oh my God, Briar. No. Absolutely not. You need to tell Lucien.”
“I will,” I say, but my voice is thin. Will I? Should I? If I tell Lucien, he will go after Matteo and someone will wind up dead. Probably Matteo. Maybe Lucien too. I can’t live with that. I can’t be the reason he loses everything.
Stacy puts her hand on mine. “Look at me. You cannot meet him.”
“I know.” But doubt creeps in anyway. Do I know? Would meeting him make him stop? If I can talk to him, reason with him, remind him that we are done?
“He’s dangerous,” Stacy says, forcing calm into her voice for my sake, but I hear the tremble. “You can’t trust him. He nearly killed you yesterday.”
“I know.” My throat closes around the words. “But if we meet in public, what could he do? There will be people. Cameras. He wouldn’t dare try anything.”
Stacy stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. “You can’t honestly believe that.”
“I got away once,” I whisper. “He signed the divorce. He let me go. Maybe I can make him understand that there is no future. I just want him to let me move on.”
“Lucien will lose his mind if you go.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between us. I feel like I’m being pulled apart. Between fear and responsibility. Between survival and guilt. Between past and future. I don’t know how to choose. I don’t want to choose at all.
“I can’t let him think he won,” I finally say. “I can’t let him control my life forever. I need to end this. Really end it.”
Stacy covers her face with her hands, then drops them and exhales hard. “If you insist on doing something unbelievably stupid, it needs to be on your terms. Change the location. Somewhere public. Somewhere safe. Somewhere near a police precinct.”
I nod, fingers shaking as I type.
I will meet you. Different location. The cafe across from the 10th police precinct, Manhattan.
He responds immediately.
Fine. Tomorrow at eleven.
