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“Thank you for the opportunity and I hope to hear from you soon,” the man says before following my lead and stands before shaking my outreached hand.

“Thanks for coming in. We’ll be in touch.” I sit back down, watching the last candidate for the open CFO position leave my office.

It’s been a year and a half of searching for the right candidate, and this one seems promising—sharp, a strong resume working for our competitors, and most importantly, a keen sense of integrity. He left his prior job because he unearthed a fraud that was ignored by the CEO and the Board.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes, exhaustion weighing on my eyelids. It’s been a day of interviews and nonstop meetings, not to mention my old friends, the paparazzi hanging out outside the building, wanting to get a remark from me about Taylor’s press conference.

The spineless idiots. But at least this time, the focus seems to be about Taylor’s bravery in sharing her experience with the world and how she’s standing up against her blackmailers. More stories have come out from countless women in all walks of life. Taylor told me that was the silver lining she’d hoped to see—to let others just like her feel less alone.

My heart doubles in size as I think about my minx, my feral little kitten—the silent strength, the don’t fuck with me attitude, the gumption to face her emotions head on.

I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be deserving of her.

I wonder how she’s doing in rehearsal today.

A pinch of worry sifts through me as I swipe open my cell phone, not seeing any calls and texts from her. But I remind myself she’s a top ballerina rehearsing for a performance that’ll determine if she gets to sit for a promotion evaluation. She’s no doubt busy as hell.

My phone buzzes, and I quickly answer it.

“Anthony? Is everything okay?”

“Sir, Taylor told me she was going to the ladies’ room, but when she didn’t come out for a long time, I asked a dancer to check inside and she wasn’t there. I’m searching the rest of the rooms as we speak.”

“Why the hell weren’t you stationed outside?” I roar, standing up and texting my driver to bring the car over.

“I stepped away for an urgent call and immediately went to the restrooms afterward. There were other people with her, so I—”

“Keep searching and keep me posted!” I rush out of the office, past my bewildered assistant and colleagues, who probably think I’ve lost my mind.

Alarm bells ring in my gut. This could very well be nothing, but my sixth sense tells me something is horribly wrong.

I get into the car and instruct the driver to get us to ABTC as fast as humanly possible. I try Taylor’s phone.

Voicemail.

I try three more times, all the same results.

Then I punch in a few numbers and wait for him to answer.

“ Fy machgen , finally have time for your uncle?” Ian chuckles.

“Have you seen Taylor?” Unease knots my insides. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds in Ian’s background—any strange breathing or noises, any sign that something is wrong.

“She was at practice just now. I haven’t seen her. Is this why you’re calling me? To find your girlfriend? Here I am thinking you’re finally missing your uncle.”

My nostrils flare. Either he’s innocent or he’s a fucking good liar and with Ian Vaughn it’s fifty-fifty.

Fuck, I wish we could unearth the bastard sooner than later because the little boy inside me really wishes for a miracle that the culprit isn’t the man I’ve looked up to my entire life.

“I see. We should meet up for a drink sometime. I’ve been MIA.” I keep my voice light, not wanting to rouse suspicion. If no one takes the bait we left at the press conference, I’m going to poke around Ian—ask him questions about Hotel Renegade to see if I can make heads or tails of his reactions.

“I’d like that. Glad to see you still remember me outside of your cariad bach .” I hear commotion in the background and suddenly, he murmurs, “I have to go, son. Talk soon.”

An unsettling silence fills the car as something niggles in the back of my mind. A phantom itch—like it’s trying to tell me I know more than I think I do.

Closing my eyes, I sift through my memories—the damning photo of Uncle Ian at the hotel lounge when he was supposed to be across the world, the violent reaction Taylor had when she first met him, every excruciating detail of her painful recollection of that night, the photo on her phone from an unknown number in Europe.

The itch grows stronger. There’s something here. What am I not seeing? Elias’s investigation into Ian. His connection to The Association. The invitation I received in Paris.

I tap my foot on the floor as the car coasts to a stop. A suffocating heat wraps around my lungs, and I tug my tie loose from my neck as I exit the car.

What am I missing?

I toss the facts around in my head again as I climb up the steps and enter the building, looking for Anthony.

Fly Harriet.

I freeze, the door slamming shut behind me in a bang .

It’s odd how she heard that, but she’s sure the monster whispered that phrase to her.

Harriet.

Fly Harriet.

“Glad to see you still remember me outside of your cariad bach.” Ian’s words from the phone call echo in my ears.

Cariad. Welsh term for sweetheart or darling. My Welsh is rusty but I’m pretty damn sure an iteration of “my darling” is “Fy Nghariad,” with the “Fy” and “Ng” sounding almost silent and nasally, leaving “Hariad.”

Fly Harriet.

Fy Nghariad. My Darling.

She’s been hearing Welsh all along.

Fear slams inside me as I hurry up the staircase, needing to find Ian and demand an answer from him. Welsh isn’t a commonly spoken language in the city. This is the piece connecting them together in one room, and I’ll be damned if she works under him a second longer. I flick on the record function on my phone and search for the bastard.

Fury boils my blood as I fly to his office and throw open the door, but he isn’t inside.

Motherfucker, where are you?

Gritting my teeth, I dash down the hallway, spotting Anthony coming out of a room and opening the door of another. I nearly plow into Ainsley, who looks equally bewildered and frantic.

“Ch-Charles! You have to help!” Ainsley tugs on my sleeve, her panicked voice causing me to freeze in my steps.

“Where’s Taylor or Sir Ian?” I growl, not caring I’m probably scaring the shit out of her.

Ainsley points her finger toward a room. “Sh-She was checking on Maddy for me in the VIP lounge.” I wave Anthony over and we run toward the VIP lounge, my breathing quickening. Ainsley calls after me, “I hear people arguing inside and it’s locked!”

Bang!

Shrill screams pierce the air.

I flinch at the booming sound of the gunshot emanating from the room. My heart slams against my rib cage as bone-crushing fear threatens to decimate me on the spot.

No. Taylor. God no.

My chest tightens, icy adrenaline flooding my veins and I yank the doorknob, finding it locked as Ainsley said. I hurtle my side against the door and it barely budges.

More shrieks and cries come from the room, followed by muffled whispers.

Desperation carves inside me, the heavy weight of dread smothering my lungs. I need to get inside. My spinning mind is filled with only one thought—Taylor.

Anthony motions at me to kick the door at the hinges with him and in a synchronized effort, we deliver sharp kicks, and the door finally gives under our assault.

We burst in, and a shocked gasp traps itself in my throat when I see Ian holding a gun, pointed to a man on the ground, the distinct burning smell of a gunshot in the air. Taylor’s face is leached of color, her arms stretched outward as she shields a quivering Maddy behind her.

She glances at me, her eyes widening in terror. My pulse riots inside me in fear and sweat beads on the back of my neck.

“Ian, put the fucking gun down,” I growl.