Page 9 of The Hunter

“Oh, he’s not?—”

“Henry Fontaine.” I extended my hand toward his, studying his reaction. There was a flicker of recognition, making it obvious he’d heard of me — the recluse hacker turned cyber security expert who never attended this kind of event.

“Nice to meet you,” he said as we shook.

It took all my resolve to resist the urge to tighten my grip and break every single bone in his hand.

His time would come.

And I would break more than just his hand.

“Your wife was gracious enough to share her interpretation of these paintings,” I offered with a charismatic smile, masking the monster inside me. “It was rather…enlightening.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said as Ariana kept her eyes averted. “Now if you’ll excuse us…”

“Of course. Enjoy your evening.”

Victor turned Ariana toward the exit, his grip on her remaining tight. Possessive.

A man staking his claim.

I lingered a moment longer, returning my eyes to the painting. Unlike mere moments ago, I no longer saw the peaceful pastoral scene. Now I saw what Ariana did. Emptiness. Loneliness.

It made me curious about her. She was definitely not the superficial woman I assumed she was. It made me brieflywonder what else I’d gotten wrong, but I quickly pushed aside the thought.

It was just her interpretation of art, something I knew nothing about. It didn’t change anything. I was here for one reason and one reason only.

To even the score.

And I would use Ariana to do exactly that.

Chapter Five

Ariana

The silence in the limo was worse than any screaming.

Victor hadn’t said a word since we slipped inside, not even when the driver pulled into the slow crawl of South Beach traffic on a Saturday night. He sat beside me, his body a taut wire of fury cloaked in stillness, his jaw clenched so tightly I could hear the grind of his teeth each time he inhaled.

I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap, spine straight, face composed. Perfect. Polished.

Only he didn’t look at me.

Didn’t speak to me.

And that had my heart hammering behind my ribs. His silence was never good. I would’ve preferred the rage, the venom. Then I’d know what sort of hell awaited me.

But this quiet?

It was like a noose slowly tightening around my neck.

I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past, pretending they were stars. Pretending I was somewhere else. Someoneelse. Even if only for a little while.

My thoughts drifted back to the museum. To the art. To the man with the curious green eyes and the deceptively quiet voice.

Henry Fontaine.

He’d been observing me before we ever spoke. I felt it like an electric charge heating my veins. It wasn’t the watchful gaze I was used to. No. His attention was different. Measured. Alert. Gentle, somehow.