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I reviewed the Beaumont files for the third time. I’d sifted through the rest of their available records, but I kept coming back to the initial dossier.

I still hadn’t pinpointed what tripped my inner alarms the first time I scanned them. A connection my subconscious seized on, perhaps, or a name my memory stashed in a dusty drawer.

Whatever it was, it was important, and it went beyond Ayana.

After half an hour and no progress, I tossed the dossier aside and poured myself a glass of scotch. Everything I’d consumed since the Vault tasted like shit, but I downed the drink anyway.

My home study was custom-built to my standards: large, secluded, and quiet, with a window overlooking the back courtyard and a maze of halls separating it from the main rooms. It brimmed with furniture and books but few personal effects.

The only nod to my past came in the form of a framed diploma from Thayer. It was where Jordan and I met.

If we’d never met, I wouldn’t be his best man. I would be freed from the torture of watching him and Ayana walk into a room together.

But if we’d never met, I wouldn’t be a CEO; I’d either be trapped with the Brotherhood or dead.

In a way, I owed everything I had to him, but I would give it all up for one thing—one person—in exchange.

If I’d said something about Ayana after I first saw her, would he still have pursued her?

If he hadn’t, would she be by my side instead?

No. I would’ve kept watch from afar, she would’ve gotten engaged to some other bastard along the way, and unburdened by the debts of gratitude or friendship, I would’ve killed him.

Instead, I was trapped in a hellish limbo where I couldn’t act either way. I couldn’t have her, and I couldn’t kill him.

I finished a second glass of scotch and returned to my desk. Loathing turned my blood to acid.

My obsession with Ayana was a double-edged sword. I craved her presence even when it drove me mad; I fixated on her absence even when it consumed my thoughts.

Whether she was near or far, I suffered.

I picked up the Beaumont dossier and read it. Again.

Perhaps it was the alcohol or the desperate need to forget October’s festivities, but the words formed a different shape this time around. Clearer, more distinct.

I skimmed past the agency’s origins and zeroed in on the founder’s bio.

Emmanuelle Beaumont, née Élodie Beaumont. Early fifties, born in a tiny town in France, changed her name to be more “fashionable” after being scouted on vacation in Paris when she was a teen.

Élodie. France. The timeline…

The connections snapped into place as ice chased away the burn from the alcohol.

It could be a coincidence, but like I said, I didn’t believe in coincidences.

I grabbed my phone and messaged Sean.

I need you to dig into something for me. Immediately.

CHAPTER10

Ayana

“Do you know why you’re here, Ayana?”

Don’t panic.“Hank said you wanted to discuss my career goals going forward.”

Emmanuelle leaned back, the picture of stylish sophistication. Her smile formed a bold slash of red across her face.