Reyes's waterfront mansion sprawls across the shoreline like something that washed up and decided to stay. White stone, glass walls, infinity pool bleeding into Biscayne Bay. The valet takes Logan's keys while security notes our names on iPads.
"Sera, darling." Reyes appears in the entrance, arms spread like I'm his daughter returning from college. His hand finds my shoulder, squeezes with paternal warmth that lasts two secondstoo long. "And Mr.Cruz, welcome. Come, there are people you must meet."
He steers me through the foyer with his palm against my back, the pressure just firm enough to be directing rather than guiding. The house opens into a great room where Miami's money mingles over champagne and careful laughter. I clock the exits automatically: French doors to the terrace, hallway to the kitchen, main entrance behind us.
"You remember the Weatherbys from the gala," Reyes says, delivering me to a silver-haired couple. "They're also exploring offshore investment opportunities."
I perform gratitude, let Mrs.Weatherby sympathize about the difficulties of widowhood while her husband discusses commodity futures with Logan. Reyes hovers, his hand returning to my elbow, my shoulder, the small of my back. Each touch perfectly appropriate and slightly wrong.
"The vault protocols we discussed," I say during a lull, voice pitched to vulnerable curiosity. "The biometric scanners, are they really that sophisticated?"
Reyes preens, launching into details about retinal scanning, voice recognition, the beautiful simplicity of graduated access tiers.
"Of course, the Manhattan facility is the most secure," he adds, refilling my champagne though I've barely sipped it. "We could arrange a visit Monday, handle the transfer paperwork in person."
Monday. Manhattan. The location clicks into place. Everything we've been guessing about the vault's whereabouts suddenly confirmed. I smile and touch his arm briefly, watch his chest puff at the contact. "I can't tell you how grateful I am for your guidance through all this."
Logan catches my eye over his whiskey, the slightest nod confirming he's noted the same information. We're getting what we came for.
The champagne has gone warm and flat in my hand when I notice a woman by the windows. Young, maybe twenty-five. She's with a man who could be forty or fifty. His hand rests on her waist, thumb moving in small circles that look like affection but read as a reminder. When he gestures, her whole body tracks the movement, flinches. Logan's attention shifts to the same woman. But something about his focus is different: sharper, colder. He's not watching her fear with empathy or concern. He's studying it with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. When her partner's voice rises slightly and she flinches, Logan's gaze sharpens rather than softens. Like the fear itself fascinates him.
Then he catches himself, deliberately looks away, returns to his whiskey and his performance of the pleasant financial advisor. I file the moment without understanding it. Something there that doesn't fit the Logan who shares late dinners at La Sirena. Something I'll need to think about later.
The woman excuses herself to the powder room, probably to steal thirty seconds of solitude. Her partner immediately starts explaining something about yacht racing to the men nearby, his hands moving expansively now that he doesn't have her to anchor him.
I recognize this too: the relief when they briefly forget you exist. How you learn to be grateful for their distraction. She's living the same beautiful prison I once called a marriage.
"Let me show you the collection," Reyes says as the party begins thinning. His hand finds my elbow, steering me toward French doors. "Pre-revolution Cuban art. Rather extraordinary."
Logan starts to follow but Reyes waves him off. "Art talk bores Mr.Cruz, I'm sure. The terrace has the best views."
We step outside onto the terrace. The space stretches along the water, lit by subtle uplighting that makes everything glow gold. The art collection turns out to be three paintings I barely glance at. This isn't about art. He's gotten me alone, away from Logan, away from witnesses. The night air is thick with jasmine from the garden, sweet enough to choke on. Inside, someone's put on Buena Vista Social Club. The music drifts through the glass like nostalgia.
"Your husband had excellent taste," Reyes says, moving to stand too close. The breeze carries his cologne, something expensive and somehow medical. "In art, in wine, in women."
I make myself smile. "Julian always knew what he wanted."
"Indeed. He spoke of you often." Reyes's voice warms with genuine admiration. "How he found you so young, so unformed. The way he shaped you into something exceptional. Like a sculptor with raw marble."
My stomach turns but I hold the smile steady.
"He was proud of what you became under his guidance," Reyes continues, hand settling on my shoulder again. "Sophisticated, observant, strategic. He used to say you were his greatest creation."
Creation. The word sits in my throat like glass.
"I see the same potential he saw," Reyes says, voice dropping to something more intimate. "You're grieving now, vulnerable, but with the right guidance, you could rebuild.”
Nausea twists in my belly, snaking up my throat.
“Perhaps you’re right. We could discuss it after I access the vault.”
"Monday in Manhattan," he says, as if it's decided. "We'll handle the vault transfer, get you properly established. There's a lovely boutique hotel I know. Discrete, elegant. We'll have dinner after to celebrate your new independence."
The way he says independence makes it clear he means dependence. On him. Another man to shape me.
"That sounds perfect," I say, letting grateful tears threaten my eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without your help."
He pulls me into a fatherly hug that lasts too long, his hand stroking my back in a way that's almost appropriate. "Julian would want me to take care of you. It's what friends do."
