The air in the lobby of Ashford Tower tasted like money and indifference.

I felt it the second the revolving door spat me onto the polished obsidian floor—that peculiar chill of old power, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself because it had been breathing for generations. My heels clicked too loudly against the stone. Everything about me was too loud for this place. The caramel curls I’d attempted to wrestle into a sleek bun already shedding pins, the portfolio tucked under my arm stuffed with color-saturated visions that probably looked garish against all this monochrome restraint.

I narrated the scene to myself to keep from bolting. A Fauvist fox stumbling into a temple of Brutalist minimalism. The docent will escort her to the altar shortly.

The docent in question turned out to be a terrifyingly serene assistant with cheekbones that could slice prosciutto. She led me into a private elevator that ascended so smoothly my stomach stayed behind in the lobby.

“Mr. Ashford will see you in the north conference room,” she said, her smile a perfect, meaningless arc. “He has fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes to save my father’s gallery.

I clutched the leather portfolio strap and nodded. “Of course.”

The doors opened onto a corridor lined with steel and glass, and at the end of it, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that turned Manhattan into a hazy watercolor, stood Lucian Ashford.

He didn’t turn when I entered. Just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, surveying his dominion of skyscrapers as though he’d personally commanded them to rise from the bedrock. Ink-black hair, immaculate. Charcoal suit that probably cost more than my SoHo apartment’s annual rent. Cufflinks glinting—platinum, I noted, with some kind of crest etched into the metal.

I’d done my research. Ashford family crest. A griffin clutching a sword. Very subtle.

“Miss Vance.” He still didn’t turn. His voice was smooth as chilled vodka. “You’re precisely forty-seven seconds late.”

My throat tightened. “I was held in lobby security for six minutes. Your system flagged my vintage brooch as a potential weapon.”

That made him turn.

The impact of his full attention was a physical thing—a pressure against my sternum. Silver eyes, pale and sharp as winter light, swept over me with clinical precision. My unruly curls. My thrifted blazer. The offending brooch—a kitschy enamel sunflower my mother had given me, utterly harmless.

A faint scar bisected his left eyebrow. It should have marred the perfection of his face. Instead, it whispered something dangerous beneath the polished surface.

“And was it?” he asked.

“Was it what?”

“A weapon.”

I blinked. “It’s a sunflower.”

“Sunflowers can be deceptively tenacious.” He moved toward the marble conference table, gesturing for me to sit. “They follow the light relentlessly. Sap nutrients from surrounding plants. Choke out weaker flora without a second thought.”

I lowered myself into the chair across from him, pulse flickering at my throat. “That’s... a very aggressive botanical analysis.”

Something that wasn’t quite a smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t deal in sentiment, Miss Vance. I deal in realities. And the reality is that my pre-merger gala requires a contemporary art showcase that communicates stability, heritage, and refined taste. Not whimsy.” His gaze dropped to my portfolio. “I trust you understood the brief.”

The brief had been faxed over three days ago—a document so conservative and predictable it might as well have been written in sepia ink. Impressionist landscapes. Safe abstracts. Nothing that might startle the delicate sensibilities of a European investor who apparently believed art peaked sometime around 1890.

“I understood it,” I said carefully. “I also prepared some alternatives that might—”

“There are no alternatives.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It simply flattened, a blade pressed against any further discussion. “The Hemmels have very particular tastes. Tastes that have been cultivated over three generations of Ashford alliances. I didn’t hire you for innovation, Miss Vance. I hired you for execution.”

The words stung. Execution. As though I were a photocopier with a pulse.

My father’s gallery rose in my mind—the peeling sage-green facade on Crosby Street, the back room cluttered with canvases that still smelled faintly of his cologne, even five years after the heart attack. The foreclosure notice tucked into my kitchen drawer like a shameful secret.

I could walk out. I could tell Lucian Ashford exactly where to file his sterile vision of art.

And then I’d lose everything my father built.

“I understand,” I heard myself say. “Classic pieces. Heritage focus. Nothing that challenges the established dialogue.”

His silver eyes narrowed, as if he suspected mockery but couldn’t locate its exact coordinates. “Precisely. You’ll have access to the Ashford collection vault. My assistant will provide an approved inventory. I expect weekly progress reports and final veto on all selections.”

“Weekly reports.” I forced my lips into a smile. “Thorough.”

“I don’t delegate trust, Miss Vance. I audit it.”

He rose, and the meeting was clearly over. I scrambled to my feet, portfolio slipping against my damp palm.

“The gala is in eight weeks,” he said, already moving toward the window, dismissing me as easily as he’d summoned me. “Don’t disappoint me. I have an extremely low tolerance for disappointment.”

I should have left. Instead, I paused at the door.

“Mr. Ashford? Sunflowers don’t actually choke out other plants. They improve soil quality and attract pollinators. They’re considered a companion species.”

He turned his head, just slightly, that scar catching the light. For a moment, something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or irritation. Or something deeper I couldn’t name.

“Then I stand corrected,” he said quietly. “But my point about tenacity remains.”

The elevator swallowed me whole, and I didn’t exhale until the lobby’s cold air hit my face again.

Outside on the sidewalk, I tipped my head back and stared up at Ashford Tower. All sixty-seven floors of it, a monolith of glass and steel that blotted out the autumn sky. Somewhere up there, Lucian Ashford was already moving on to his next conquest, his next command, his next careful calculation.

I’d just shaken hands with a man who could make or break everything I loved. All I had to do was nod and smile. Swallow every protest. Curate the most boring, soulless collection of my career.

How hard could it be?

The portfolio felt heavier in my arms as I turned toward the subway.

Heavier, and somehow already compromised.