I peeled back the fabric. My breath caught.
A golden pendant shimmered in the light. The stones caught the glow and broke it apart—light fracturing as if the bird itself breathed. Shaped like a phoenix, its wings spread wide, studded with gems—rubies, sapphires, emeralds, diamonds—each one cut with impossible precision. The piece seemed to pulse, as if the firebird might burst free at any moment.
Recognition hit me. I’d seen it before—in a manuscript locked away in the Vatican Library. That image had burned itself into me. It couldn’t be the real thing. It had to be a forgery. A masterful one, yes—but still.
If it truly was the pendant from that manuscript, I wasn’t holding a fortune.I was holding history itself.
I wrapped the phoenix back into its velvet shroud with careful fingers. Nearly nine o’clock. Time was running. Clutching the box, I hurried upstairs.
Outside, the cool morning air rushed over me, and I pulled my cardigan tighter. Parked at the entrance was a black Jeep, its paint a glossy mirror. Ference stood beside it, his presence cutting through the quiet. His dark suit fit with razor precision, accentuating the kind of strength that made stillness more imposing than motion.
“Good day, Miss Elfhorn,” Ference said in his calm, measured voice, opening the rear door. Inside, Karl greeted me with a brief nod.
“Hello,” I murmured, climbing in. The interior smelled faintly of leather. No sooner had I settled than Ference joined me, taking the seat at my side.
“A very good day to you, Miss Elfhorn. My name is Bastien. I’ll be driving you to New York and back. Are you ready?” the driver asked with a friendly smile.
“Yes.” The box lay across my lap, tucked safely in its bag.
The Jeep’s engine purred to life, low and powerful. As Bastien guided us forward, I leaned into the cool leather, steadying my breath for what lay ahead.
Miller & Co. loomed over the heart of New York, its glass façade catching the sun and throwing it back in blinding shards. Men and women in tailored suits streamed past with sharp, purposeful strides. Karl opened my door, and I stepped out, drawing a steadying breath. Flanked by the guards, I followed him through the crowded lobby.
Behind the counters, women with flawless hair and lacquered smiles greeted clients. Perfection—manufactured, pressed into human form. I felt suddenly out of place in this world of crisp lines and sculpted elegance. I lifted my chin, forcing confidence into my posture. Counter seven waited ahead, manned by a young woman with perfect blonde waves.
“Good morning. My name is Miss Elfhorn. I’m here to drop something off.”
Her eyes flicked over me, professional and cool. “Miss Elfhorn, Mr. Miller has asked that you come directly to his office. Twenty-seventh floor.”
“The twenty-seventh?” The words slipped out thinner than I intended. She pointed toward the elevators with manicured nails, then turned to Ference.
“You and your colleague may wait here for Miss Elfhorn.”
“We’ll accompany her upstairs,” Ference said evenly, already moving.
I glanced at him, grateful. “Thank you,” I murmured as the three of us stepped into the elevator.
“Of course.” His eyes swept over me, then with a quick motion he straightened the vest slipping from my shoulder. His voice lowered, meant only for me. “Don’t let them rattle you. They all look like dolls.”
A small laugh escaped me, breaking through my nerves. The mirrored walls caught my reflection—pale, tense, not nearly as calm as I wanted to be. The elevator chimed. Twenty-seven lit up, and the doors slid open.
The floor resembled a gallery more than an office: priceless paintings framed in gold lined the walls, and sculptures from across the world stood on pedestals. Even here, the receptionists looked like runway models, every detail immaculate.
“Miss Elfhorn?” one asked.
“We’re bringing her to Mr. Miller,” Ference replied before I could. His quiet steadiness kept me from bolting.
“That won’t be necessary,” the woman said, cool as glass. “You can wait downstairs.”
Ference gave me a final nod—steady, grounding. I clung to it as I followed the woman down the wide corridor. This was supposed to be simple. Just a delivery. So why was I being led to him? I tried to steady my breath, but every step toward that door felt like stepping into something irreversible.
We stopped at the threshold, a gold nameplate catching the light:Damian Miller.
The secretary ushered me inside and shut the door. Shoulders straight, I crossed the room with practiced composure. He would not see hesitation.
Damian sat behind a dark desk, leaning over a document. Even in stillness, power radiated from him—sharp control threaded with something darker. When he looked up, his gaze rolled over me like heat, searing through skin and bone.
My hand tightened on the bag. It felt like the only anchor keeping me steady. My pulse thundered so violently I was sure he heard it, but I kept my expression calm.
