“Tell her I said hi, and that she better fight through this so she can bake us her lemon cake again.”
“I’ll tell her,” Jenn said, stifling a yawn.
“How was your exam, by the way?” I asked.
“Passed.”
“I’m proud of you. You’re going to make an amazing vet.”
“I’m proud of you too, Daisy. I wish you’d come back.”
“Maybe someday. We’ll talk in a few days?”
“We will. Talk soon.”
“Talk soon.”
When I finally hung up, I sent Mom a quick text, stripped down, and stepped under the shower.
But Damian Miller’s face stayed.
Through the steam.
Through the dark.
All the way into the night.
And in the quiet between dreams, I swore I heard his voice again.
Chapter 3 Daisy
The first rays of morning filtered through the canopy along the street, casting shadows across the cobblestones in front of the shop.
“Good morning, Miss Elfhorn,” Marlon greeted with a nod. After four weeks, I knew all the bodyguards’ names now—the men who worked for Mr. Miller. Their presence gave me a strange sense of safety. Broad shoulders. Sharp eyes that never rested. They were always there before I arrived, and still there when I left.
“Good morning, Marlon. Good morning, Rick,” I replied.
Rick’s face seemed carved into a permanent mask of sternness. His nod was curt. “Good morning, Miss Elfhorn.”
Beatrice had moved to Switzerland weeks ago, promising she’d visit one day. She still called often to check if things were running smoothly. I was surprised at how quickly I’d slipped into the rhythm here. Whenever the shop was quiet, I buried myself in the archives, sifting through artifacts and their histories. Notalways, but enough. I’d already uncovered details Beatrice had missed—misread inscriptions, wrong dates. I corrected them quietly.The morning felt calm—too calm, maybe. With coffee in hand, I settled at my desk and booted up the computer. Tugging the elastic from my wrist, I twisted my hair into a messy bun and scanned the bulletin board crowded with notes. Among them, Damian Miller’s business card. The calendar reminded me: delivery at 3 PM.
I sipped, skimmed through emails, flagged a few, answered others. Then I updated the stock lists, logging missing receipts into the database. When the admin work was done, I turned to the shipment I’d received the night before—when my phone buzzed. The screen showed an unfamiliar number.
“Daisy Elfhorn.”
“Good morning, Miss Elfhorn. My name is Patricia Kronfort. I’m one of Mr. Miller’s assistants. I’ll be sending you an email with instructions. Follow them exactly.”
“All right,” I said. “May I ask what this is regarding?”
“You’ll find all the details in the email.”
She hung up.
Minutes later, the email arrived. I logged into my Miller & Co. account and read through the instructions. At ten o’clock sharp, I was to deliver artifact XN79335 to counter seven in New York. At 9:30, two bodyguards and a car would be waiting.
My pulse quickened. I went straight to the lower level—what Beatrice had always calledthe treasure chamber. Pulling a folderfrom the shelves, I flipped through the pages until I found the right entry. Then I tracked down the storage box.
Inside, swaddled in velvet, lay the artifact.
