Chapter 2 — The Cocoa Trap (1)

The studio was a third-floor walk-up in the Garment District, a warren of sewing machines, fabric bolts, and dreams in various stages of construction. Zoe's aunt had owned it for thirty years. Zoe had inherited it. I'd been crashing on the couch for a week, and I'd already turned the spare room into a design studio.

The suspicious man showed up on day eight.

I was knee-deep in a dress — a commission for a bride who had seen my wedding video and, in a moment of inspired pettiness, decided she wanted "the woman who burned it all down" to design her something better. The client's words, not mine. I was using them as fuel.

The bell over the door rang. I didn't look up.

"We're closed," I said. "Try the boutique on Fifth."

"I'm not here for a dress."

The voice was low, smooth, with an accent I couldn't place — and a warmth that made me look up despite myself.

He was tall. That was the first thing. Tall in a way that made the low ceiling feel lower, and the dim studio feel dimmer, and the space between us feel like it was shrinking. He wore a black coat that probably cost more than my entire studio, and his hair was dark, and his skin was pale, and his eyes—

His eyes were the color of old gold, and they were looking at me like I was the only object in the room.

"I'm Severen Thorne," he said. "I've been trying to meet you for three weeks."

"Scarlett Kane." I set down my scissors. "And you're the man who's been stalking my best friend's office."

"Stalking is such an ugly word." He smiled, and the smile did something complicated to the temperature of the room. "I prefer 'conducting due diligence.'"

"Due diligence on what?"

"On you." He walked into the studio, slowly, looking at the fabric bolts, the sketches, the half-finished dress on the mannequin. "I saw your wedding. The livestream. The way you walked out of that cathedral in your underwear, with a decade of debt behind you and no plan in front of you."

"Flattering."

"It was magnificent." He turned to face me, and his eyes were serious. "It was the most magnificent thing I've seen in a very long time. A woman who knew exactly what she was worth, in front of the whole world, refusing to be bought."

"So you're a fan," I said. "Great. The fan club meets Tuesdays. There's coffee and resentment."

"I'm not a fan." He reached into his coat and pulled out a folder. "I'm an investor."

He set the folder on the table. Inside were documents — legal, financial, detailed. I recognized the letterhead of his company, THORNE & SONS, which I'd heard of, vaguely, as one of those mysterious family firms that owned half the city and never gave interviews.

"What is this?" I asked.

"A proposal." He opened the folder. "THORNE & SONS has an empty floor in our headquarters. It's a design atelier, fully equipped — cutting tables, dress forms, a lighting rig that would make Paris jealous. It's yours, rent-free, for three years, with a full operating budget and no strings attached."

I stared at him.

"No strings attached," I repeated. "A man I've never met, in a city full of sharks, hands me a fully funded atelier with no strings?"

"Correct."

"Why?"

"Because," he said simply, "you're the best designer in this city, and you've been buried under a family that never knew how to use you. I'm offering you a chance to prove it."

"Sounds too good to be true."

"It probably is." He smiled again, that complicated smile. "But so is walking out of a cathedral in front of twenty million people. You took that chance. Take this one."

I looked at the folder. I looked at the man. I looked at the half-finished dress on the mannequin — the dress that was going to launch my new life.

"What do you get out of it?" I asked.

"I get to watch." His voice was quiet. "I get to watch a woman who refused to be owned build something that belongs to her. That's the only payment I want."

"Suspicious," I said.

"Efficient." He nodded toward the folder. "Read it. Sleep on it. Take a week. The offer stands."

He turned to leave. And then he stopped, and reached into his coat, and pulled out a paper cup.

"Cocoa," he said, handing it to me. "I heard you like it. Three sugars, extra cream."

I blinked. "How did you—"

"I told you," he said, and his eyes glinted, "I did my due diligence."

He left. The door closed. I stood in the studio, holding a cup of cocoa that was exactly the right temperature, exactly the right sweetness, made exactly the way I'd been ordering it since college — and I felt the first crack in my armor.