Page 97 of Bound

It is beautiful.

It always was.

Bronson Bachman once told me this store was never only about jewels.

I was young enough then to think that sounded sentimental.

I know better now.

There are stores in New York that sell diamonds.

Bachman’s sells history.

Power.

Secrets.

Apologies men are too proud to speak aloud.

Vows they would rather place on a woman’s hand than admit they are afraid to lose her.

The front bell chimes.

Bronson’s voice comes from the doorway of the office. “You look like a man about to either buy a ring or commit murder.”

“Both have happened in this building.”

“Only one today, I hope.”

I glance over my shoulder.

Bronson stands in the doorway of the back office in a black suit, his expression dry, unreadable, too familiar. Beside him, Paige Bachman carries a red leather box in both hands as if she were bringing me something sacred.

She probably is.

Paige looks around the office once, her gaze catching on the floor.

She knows.

Of course she knows.

Everyone knows what happened here.

That story has become family mythology.

A girl on Bachman Avenue.

A proud old brownstone.

A blue diamond in the window.

An itch in her fingers.

A Bachman waiting on the other side.

And a woman who once walked into the most exclusive jewelers in New York wearing kitten-printed work scrubs, wanting a diamond that she had no business touching.

Bronson’s beginning.