Chapter 48

The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt louder than a slam.

I stood in the center of my apartment, surrounded by the wreckage of the evening—two wine glasses on the coffee table, his jacket still draped over the chair despite him picking it up, the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air. He must have forgotten it in his hurry to leave.

Or maybe he'd left it on purpose.

I picked up the jacket, felt the weight of it in my hands. Cashmere. Expensive. The kind of thing Dominic wore without thinking about it, the way I used to wear thrift store finds without thinking about them. Different worlds. Different lives.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

We need to talk. Tomorrow. 10am. The address below. Come alone. —Iris

Below it, an address in Pacific Heights. Her house, probably. The house where Marcus had shown up this morning to detonate my life.

I deleted the text. Then restored it from the trash. Then stared at it for five minutes before setting the phone face-down on the counter.

Sleep didn't come. I lay in bed watching shadows move across the ceiling, replaying every conversation with Dominic, searching for the moment I should have seen it. The moment I should have known.

But there wasn't one. Or maybe there were dozens, and I'd been too caught up in the feeling of being wanted to notice.

At 3am, I got up and made coffee. Opened my laptop. Typed "Iris Chen Blackwood" into the search bar.

The results were extensive. Society pages. Charity galas. A profile in San Francisco Magazine from two years ago titled "The Woman Behind the Empire." I clicked it.

The photo showed a woman in her late forties, elegant in the way that required both money and discipline. Dark hair pulled back. Pearls. A smile that didn't reach her eyes. She stood in front of a wall of books in what the caption identified as her home library.

I read the article twice. It was mostly fluff—her philanthropic work, her role on various boards, her "dedication to preserving her late husband's legacy." But there were details that snagged. The mention of her son from her first marriage, estranged. The careful way she talked about Dominic, always "my stepson" never just "my son." The quote near the end: "Family is everything. But family is also complicated. Sometimes love means making difficult choices."

At 9:45am, I was standing outside the address Iris had sent.

The house was exactly what I'd expected—a Victorian painted lady, immaculate, probably worth eight million dollars. The kind of place that had been in families for generations, passed down like heirlooms.

I rang the bell.

The woman who answered was smaller than she'd looked in photos. Thinner. But her eyes were sharp, assessing me in the three seconds before she spoke.

"Sloane." Not a question. "Come in."

The interior was museum-quiet. Hardwood floors that gleamed. Art on the walls that was probably original. A staircase that curved up to the second floor like something from a movie.

She led me to a sitting room overlooking the garden. Gestured to a chair. I sat. She remained standing.

"Would you like tea?"

"No."

"Coffee?"

"I'm fine."

She nodded. Moved to the window, her back to me. "Marcus told me you're James Whitmore's daughter."

"Yes."

"He showed me the DNA results. The birth certificate. All very thorough." She turned. "Tell me—did you know who Dominic was when you met him?"

"No."

"When did you find out?"

"A few weeks ago."

"And you continued the relationship."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes."

"Why?"

I met her eyes. "Because I wanted to."

Something flickered across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or respect. Hard to tell.

"My husband died three years ago," she said. "Heart attack. Very sudden. He was fifty-eight." She moved away from the window, sat in the chair across from me. "We'd been married for twenty-two years. I loved him. Not the way you love someone in movies—not that consuming, desperate thing. But steadily. Reliably. The way you love someone who's built a life with you."

I didn't respond. Didn't know what she wanted me to say.

"James Whitmore was his best friend," she continued. "They met in college. Stayed close through everything—marriages, divorces, business ventures. When James died, Richard was devastated. He blamed himself."

"For what?"

"For not seeing it coming. For not doing more." She folded her hands in her lap. "Richard was the one who found him. Did you know that?"

I shook my head.

"They were supposed to meet for lunch. James didn't show. Richard went to his apartment. Found him in the bathroom. Pills everywhere." Her voice stayed level, clinical. "He called 911. Tried CPR. But it was too late. James had been dead for hours."

The room felt smaller suddenly. Airless.

"Richard never got over it," Iris said. "He started drinking more. Working less. He'd disappear for days, and when he came back, he wouldn't say where he'd been. I thought—" She paused. "I thought he was having an affair. It would have been easier if he was."

"What was he doing?"

"Looking for you." She said it simply, like it was obvious. "He hired investigators. Spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to track down James's daughter. He was obsessed with the idea that James had left someone behind. That there was a piece of him still out there, and if Richard could find it, could help it, maybe that would—" She stopped. "Maybe that would make up for not saving him."

I gripped the arms of the chair. "Did he find me?"

"No. The investigators came up empty. Your mother had covered her tracks well." Iris's mouth tightened. "Richard died still looking. And then, six months after his funeral, you walked into Dominic's gallery."

The implication hung between us.

"You think I planned it," I said.

"I think it's a remarkable coincidence."

"It was a coincidence."

"Was it?" She leaned forward. "You're an artist. You show up at a gallery owned by the stepson of the man who spent years searching for you. You start a relationship with him. And now, conveniently, Marcus has proof of who you are. Proof that entitles you to a significant portion of the Blackwood estate."

"I didn't know about any of that."

"So you say."

"I'm not lying."

"Everyone lies, Sloane. The question is what they're lying about." She stood. Walked to a desk in the corner. Opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. Set it on the coffee table between us. "This is what you're entitled to under Richard's will. Assuming the DNA results are legitimate."

I didn't touch the folder.

"Twelve million dollars," Iris said. "Plus a percentage of the company's annual profits. Plus the house in Napa that Richard bought the year before he died. He never told me why he bought it. Now I know—he was planning for you. Planning for the day he'd find you and could give you something of your father's."

"I don't want it."

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid. I don't want his money."

"Then what do you want?" Her voice sharpened. "Dominic? Because if that's your play, you should know he's not available."

"He's thirty-four years old. I think he can make his own decisions."

"Not about this." She moved closer. "Dominic has obligations. To the company. To the family. To Richard's memory. He can't throw all of that away for—" She gestured at me. "For whatever this is."

"You should tell him that. Not me."

"I'm telling you because you're the one who can walk away." Her eyes were hard now. "Take the money. Sign the papers. Disappear. Let Dominic do what he needs to do."

"Which is what?"

"Marry someone appropriate. Have children. Run the company the way Richard wanted. Not destroy everything his stepfather built because he's infatuated with his dead best friend's daughter."

The words landed like slaps.

"Does Dominic know you're here?" I asked.

"No."

"Does he know about the money? About what I'm entitled to?"

"Not yet. Marcus is handling the legal details. But he'll find out soon." She picked up the folder. Held it out to me. "Take it. Read it. Think about what you really want. And then make the right choice."

I stood. Didn't take the folder.

"I'm not going to disappear because it's convenient for you," I said. "And I'm not going to make decisions about my relationship with Dominic based on what his dead stepfather might have wanted."

"Then you're a fool."

"Maybe." I moved toward the door. "But at least I'm not trying to control someone else's life because I'm afraid of losing what I have."

Her face went white. "Get out."

"Gladly."

I was halfway down the front steps when she called after me.

"Sloane."

I turned.

She stood in the doorway, backlit, her expression unreadable.

"Marcus is calling an emergency board meeting," she said. "Tomorrow. He's going to force Dominic to choose—the company or you. And if Dominic chooses you, Marcus will make sure he loses everything. The gallery. His position. His reputation. Everything Richard left him."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to understand what's at stake." She gripped the doorframe. "And because, despite what you think, I do care about Dominic. I don't want to see him destroy himself."

"Then stop Marcus."

"I can't. He has the board's support. And he has—" She hesitated. "He has information. About Dominic. Things that could be very damaging if they became public."

"What kind of information?"

"The kind that ends careers." She stepped back. "The meeting is at 2pm. Blackwood Industries headquarters. If you care about him at all, you'll stay away."

The door closed.

I stood on the sidewalk, my phone already in my hand, Dominic's number on the screen.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

Then I saw the text notification. From Marcus. Sent ten minutes ago.

The meeting is at 2pm tomorrow. I assume Iris has filled you in. Here's what you need to know: if Dominic doesn't sign the statement, I'll release the photos. All of them. And his career will be over by dinner.

Below the text, a photo. Dominic, younger, maybe twenty-five. In a club. With someone I didn't recognize. Doing something that looked—

I closed the message before I could see more.

My phone rang. Dominic.

I stared at his name on the screen until it went to voicemail.