Chapter 1 - The Man Behind the Door
The crystal chandelier above Saraphene Winters scattered light across the polished marble floor like fragments of broken diamonds.
She moved through the crowd with the practiced invisibility of someone accustomed to being overlooked. Her black server’s uniform blended into the spaces between wealthy collectors gathered beneath the lights of the Beaumont Gallery, while the silver tray balanced in her hands grew heavier with every passing hour. Her fingers ached from holding champagne flutes that probably cost more than a week of her rent.
This was not Saraphene’s normal world.
She was a substitute, called in at the last minute after 1 of the regular servers reported sick. The pay was 3 times her usual rate, which was the only reason she had accepted the charity art auction. Her hours at the café had recently been reduced, and next month’s rent was already becoming a problem.
The gallery hummed with restrained conversation and occasional laughter. Women in designer gowns drifted past in clouds of expensive perfume. Men in tailored suits gestured toward paintings while watches worth more than Saraphene’s car flashed beneath the chandelier.
Around her, people discussed artists she had never heard of and 6-figure purchases with the casual tone others used to talk about groceries.
Saraphene preferred being invisible to all of them.
For the previous 8 months, invisibility had become a form of survival.
She had changed her phone number twice.
She took different routes home from work.
She had changed her locks.
She had quit a previous job after her ex-boyfriend repeatedly appeared there.
She had filed a restraining order that he violated 3 times before the police began treating the situation seriously.
For 8 months, Saraphene had lived with the possibility that Trent Morrison might appear wherever she went.
“Miss. Another round for table 7.”
Marco, the floor manager, appeared beside her.
His voice carried the clipped irritation that seemed permanent whenever he was working an event.
Saraphene nodded and turned toward the service station.
Her lower back ached. She had already been standing for 4 hours and still had 3 remaining. The heels required by the gallery were slightly too small, pinching her toes with every step.
She was refilling her tray when she saw him.
Trent.
The champagne bottle in her hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
The edges of the gallery seemed to blur while his profile came into sharp focus across the room.
He was laughing beside a woman in a red dress, 1 hand resting possessively on her arm. 2 men stood with them.
The laugh that Saraphene had once thought charming now sent cold through her body.
8 months.
8 months since the locks.
8 months since the restraining order.
8 months since he began showing up at her workplace.
8 months since she had found him parked outside her apartment at 2:00 a.m.
And now he was standing in the Beaumont Gallery.
Saraphene set down the bottle before her shaking hand dropped it.
Trent had not seen her yet.
Every instinct told her to leave before he did.
She slipped through a service door into one of the gallery’s rear corridors.
The sound of the auction faded behind her.
Fluorescent lights replaced chandeliers.
Concrete replaced marble.
Saraphene’s breathing came in short, uneven bursts.
She could not allow Trent to know where she was working, even temporarily. The restraining order had never physically stopped him from finding her before.
Then she heard male voices behind her.
They were moving closer.
She could not tell whether Trent was among them.
She did not wait to find out.
An unmarked door stood ahead.
Storage, she hoped.
Anywhere she could hide long enough for whoever was approaching to pass.
Saraphene opened it and slipped inside.
It was not a storage room.
It was a private bathroom.
Marble countertops.
Gold fixtures.
Dim lighting.
The kind of space reserved for VIP guests.
And someone was already inside.
A man stood before the mirror adjusting the watch on his wrist.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal suit so perfectly fitted that it could only have been custom made.
Dark hair was swept back from a sharply defined face.
When Saraphene entered, he looked up.
Gray eyes met hers through the mirror.
“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I thought this was—”
The voices in the corridor grew louder.
Saraphene glanced toward the door.
The man followed her gaze.
He seemed to understand her fear before she said anything.
Without asking a question, he reached past her and switched off the light.
Darkness swallowed the bathroom.
Saraphene gasped.
His hand closed around her wrist.
Not painfully.
Firmly.
He guided her behind the door at the exact moment someone began opening it.
“Thought I saw someone come in here,” a male voice said.
It was not Trent.
Relief and fear collided inside her.
“Bathroom’s occupied,” the man beside Saraphene called.
His voice carried immediate authority.
“The sign was removed for repair.”
“Oh. Sorry, sir.”
The door closed.
Saraphene stood still in the darkness.
Her breathing sounded too loud.
The man remained close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body and catch the scent of cedar and bergamot from his cologne.
His hand remained loosely around her wrist only until the danger passed.
“They’re gone,” Saraphene whispered.
He released her immediately.
A moment later, instead of switching on the bright overhead lights, he illuminated a small lamp above the mirror.
In the softer light, Saraphene saw him clearly for the first time.
Mid-30s, perhaps.
Sharp cheekbones.
Controlled features.
A mouth that looked as though it rarely smiled.
Gray eyes that seemed to register more than most people intended to reveal.
“Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed somewhere to hide.”
“From someone at the auction?”
Saraphene nodded.
“Are you in danger?”
“Not immediate danger. Just someone I used to know. Someone I’d rather avoid.”
He studied her.
His gaze moved over the inexpensive uniform, the ill-fitting shoes, and the fear she was struggling to contain.
“You’re one of the servers.”
“Temporary. Just tonight.”
Something almost like amusement appeared in his eyes.
“That’s apparent.”
There was no insult in the words.
Saraphene moved toward the door.
“I should go. Thank you again.”
“Wait.”
She stopped.
“Give it a few minutes. Let whoever you’re avoiding move elsewhere in the gallery.”
The advice was reasonable.
Saraphene leaned against the wall.
The man returned to the mirror.
Every movement he made was controlled and deliberate.
“Selian,” he said suddenly. “Selian Ashford.”
The name meant nothing to Saraphene, though the way he offered it suggested it might mean something in this room.
“Saraphene Winters.”
Selian turned toward her.
“And who are you hiding from, Saraphene Winters?”
“Someone from my past.”
“Complicated?”
“Yes.”
“Most worthwhile things are.”
He watched her for another moment.
“Does this person pose an actual threat?”
Saraphene thought about Trent.
His threats had often sounded like concern.
His control had once sounded like love.
The behavior that followed their breakup had removed any ambiguity.
“He used to. I have a restraining order. He doesn’t always respect it.”
Something cold moved behind Selian’s eyes.
“I see.”
Saraphene looked down at the hem of her uniform.
She felt absurdly out of place beside him.
A temporary server standing inside a private bathroom with a man wearing a custom suit and an expensive watch.
“I need to get back before they notice I’m gone.”
“What’s his name?”
Saraphene looked at him.
“Why?”
“Professional curiosity. I prefer knowing who creates problems in places I frequent.”
There was more behind the answer than he explained.
“Trent Morrison.”
She hesitated.
“But please, I don’t want trouble. I only need to finish my shift and leave without him seeing me.”
Selian nodded.
“Understood. Although avoiding him all evening in a space this size may be difficult.”
He was right.
The Beaumont Gallery was large, but Trent would eventually circulate.
“I’ll manage,” Saraphene said. “I always do.”
Something resembling respect crossed Selian’s expression.
“I don’t doubt it.”
He reached into his jacket and handed her a card.
Selian Ashford.
Antiquities Acquisition and Private Sales.
A telephone number.
Nothing else.
“If you need assistance,” he said, “I’m good at solving problems.”
Saraphene put the card into her pocket.
“I doubt I could afford your kind of problem-solving.”
“Perhaps not. Consider it professional courtesy.”
He moved to the door.
“Wait another 60 seconds after I leave. I’ll draw attention toward the main gallery.”
Saraphene watched him.
“Why are you helping me?”
Selian looked back.
“Because 8 months is a long time to spend running from someone. And because men who make women feel they have to run should not be allowed to continue unchecked.”
Then he left.
Saraphene counted to 60.
When she returned to the service area, Marco gave her a sharp look but did not question the absence.
The rest of the auction passed without Trent seeing her.
Saraphene saw him several times at a safe distance.
She also saw Selian twice.
Once, their eyes met across the gallery.
He gave her a barely perceptible nod.
By the time the auction ended, Saraphene’s feet hurt badly enough that each step required effort.
But Trent had not approached her.
That was enough.
While she collected her tips, Marco appeared.
“Miss Winters.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Ashford asked me to give you this.”
He handed her a heavy cream envelope.
Inside was a substantial amount of money.
Far more than Saraphene had earned during the entire shift.
Saraphene did not count the bills. She looked first at the doorway through which Marco had disappeared, then at the envelope in her hands. A large tip could be kindness. It could also be the beginning of a debt somebody else intended to collect.
She took out Selian’s card and typed a message to the number on it. Thank you, but I can’t accept this much money. Where can I return it?
Three dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again. Before a reply arrived, a security guard stepped into the employee lounge. His badge said BELL. He held a tablet with an incident form on its screen.
“Miss Winters? The gallery needs to ask about your access to the north restoration corridor.”
“I wasn’t in the restoration corridor.”
Bell turned the tablet. An access log showed her temporary badge number beside a door opening at 9:14 p.m. Below it was a camera still of someone in a black server’s uniform, head lowered beneath the brim of a borrowed cap. The face was impossible to see.
“Something’s missing from that room,” Bell said. “Until we work out what happened, please stay here.”
Saraphene remembered the expensive watch Selian had been adjusting in the private bathroom. At 9:14, she had been standing beside him in the dark, listening to a stranger try the handle.
Her phone buzzed. Selian had answered.
The money is a tip for your work. It buys nothing from you. Keep it or return it to the gallery cashier. Are you somewhere safe?
Saraphene looked from the phone to the guard. She had spent eight months trying to keep Trent Morrison from deciding where she was allowed to be. She would not give a new stranger that power, however expensive his suit.
“I’ll answer questions,” she told Bell. “But I want the time recorded accurately, and I want to call someone before you take my phone.”
She turned the tablet back toward him. In the blurry photograph, the figure carried something Saraphene recognized: the champagne tray she had set down before she fled from Trent. One of its handles was bent upward, just slightly, where a banquet cart had crushed it earlier that evening.
Someone had taken her tray, her badge number, and her uniform’s appearance.
May you like
Someone had prepared to make her look like a thief.
And the only man who could place her somewhere else at 9:14 was the dangerous stranger who had already vanished into the crowd.
