Chapter 1 Daisy
Istood before the antique shop, drew a sharp breath. The carved wooden door loomed—dark, weathered, waiting for me. Iron bars crossed the windows like a warning. Two bodyguards flanked the entrance, their eyes locked on me. Both wore black suits. One had a square jaw and cropped blond hair; the other hid his eyes behind dark sunglasses.
“My name is Daisy Elfhorn. I have an appointment with Ms. Beatrice Stonfeld.” My voice came out steady, though my throat felt tight.
“ID,” the man with the sunglasses said. His partner scanned the street behind me.
I dug into my bag, pulled out my ID, and handed it over. He studied it, then lifted his phone, comparing the screen with the card. My face flashed back at me from the device. After a long beat, he returned the ID, keyed in a code, and the lock gave a softbeep. Without a word, he pushed the door open and motioned me inside.
The silence hit me first—heavy, suffocating. The air smelled of dust, wood, and age, as if time itself had settled in the walls. Shelves climbed from floor to ceiling, packed with artifacts. My pulse quickened. Sunlight cut through the windows like secrets refusing to stay buried.
A chest of drawers stood to my right, its surface worn smooth by years of hands. Above it hung a massive gold-framed mirror. Along the far wall, glass cases displayed silver and fragile glassware. A long table ran down the center, crowded with books and relics. Paintings covered the walls, completing the sense of a guarded vault.
I drifted toward a round table near the windows. A leather-bound book lay open, its cover cracked and faded. Beside it sat gilded pens and a globe dulled by dust. Everything in the room carried history, as if it were breathing. If I got the job, I would study each piece. I already wanted to claim them as mine.
At the back, a small elderly woman sat behind a desk worn pale at the edges. Silver hair framed her face, her glasses sliding low on her nose. Her gaze lifted—sharp first, then softening, as if deciding whether to trust me.
“Miss Elfhorn?” she asked, rising. A flicker of pain crossed her face before she forced it down.
“That’s right,” I answered.
She smoothed her blouse. “I’m Beatrice Stonfeld.” Her voice was calm, certain.
Her smile loosened the tension in my chest.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
We shook hands. She motioned me toward the table.
“Please, sit.”
I settled into the chair across from her. “Your shop is incredible.”
“Thank you. But it isn’t mine. I only work here.”
“Then shouldn’t I be meeting the owner?”
“Not necessary.” Her smile tilted behind her glasses. “Damian—Mr. Miller—trusts me.
Something in the way she said his name made my pulse quicken—too much respect, or something else.
“He forwarded your application to me himself. I’ve worked here nearly half my life. The shop belonged to his parents. After they passed, he kept it alive.”
“And where is Mr. Miller now?”
Her eyes caught mine over the rims of her glasses. “He runs Miller & Co. Antiques in New York. International, rare antiquities. This shop serves as a secure collection and distribution center. Only select personnel are allowed access. You’ll learn more later.”
She gathered a few papers, adjusting her glasses. “I’ve reviewed your background check. Everything clears. Your résumé says art history?”
“Yes. I focused on ancient scripts.”
Her eyes lifted from the papers. “Your skill in detecting forgeries and restoring artifacts—rare. We could use that.”
“Thank you.”
“How did you comeby these skills?”
