Page 7 of No Longer Mine

The sun was finally starting to set when I kicked the door to my brownstone shut, the sound echoing through the quiet space, and yanked at my tie like it was strangling me. My neck ached like hell.

I let out a long breath, my shoulders slumping—then I stopped.

Something was off.

It was the kind of off that made your skin crawl and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

I backtracked to the door, my eyes scanning the entryway. Everything looked the same. The coat rack still held my jacket from earlier, the small table near the door had the same pile of unopened mail. But it wasn’t right.

I realized it when I glanced at the security panel—no blinking light. There was no familiar beep when I’d walked through the door.

My system wasn’t armed.

It was never not armed.

My pulse quickened as my hand instinctively went to the inside of my jacket, fingers brushing the cold metal of the weapon I always carried. The switchblade was familiar and somewhat of a comfort since I didn’t care for guns or use them. Slowly, I stepped further into the room, my movements controlled and steady.

The silence pressed in around me, unnatural and heavy.

Someone had been here.

But nothing was out of place.

Everything in my home had its spot, and I was meticulous about it. I could thank Sinclair Cristof for that. Growing up, messes weren’t tolerated—not in our rooms, not in ourselves. Disorder was a weakness, and weakness wasn’t allowed in his house.

As an adult, I’d cut loose when I could, but only when I was certain my father wasn’t watching. My mother, on the other hand, always made sure to break the rules when my father wasn’t looking. She’d been the one to hand me a paintbrushwhen I was a toddler, coaxing creativity out of a world built on control.

Now, my walls bore proof of that rebellion. My personal paintings hung in neat, precise rows—a gallery of my defiance disguised as decor.

Except one was slightly crooked.

My chest tightened as I crossed the room, every step measured and calculated. I yanked the painting away from the wall, half-expecting to find one of my safes open, or worse, emptied.

The safe was still there, the steel door shut. No sign of forced entry.

But something wasn’t right.

I crouched, running my hand along the edges, searching for scratches, smudges, anything that suggested someone had tampered with it. Nothing.

Still, my instincts screamed at me.

Someone had been here.

I replaced the painting, stepping back to scan the room again, my hand hovering near the weapon inside my jacket. Whoever it was, they were careful and precise. I couldn’t tell if they were trying to send me a message or if they were looking for an opening. Or maybe it was something else.

Chapter Four

He growled and shoved me back against the chair harder. “You started this, Little Fox. Now it’s time for you to take it.”

FUCK.Fuck. Fuck.

I’d never cut it this close before.

Perched on the ledge of a three-story brownstone in the heart of New York City, I gritted my teeth, my pulse hammering in my ears. The cold metal of the railing dug into my palm as I clung to it, balancing precariously in the shadows. This wasn’t good. Anyone could spot me out here, and if they did? It’d be game over.

The worst part?

I’d left his security system down.