Chapter 703

Victoria's pulse hammered violently, the sound deafening in her own ears. Adrenaline flooded her system, sharp and merciless. This was terror—the kind that turned your veins to ice; the kind that breathed death in your ear.

She'd always known men like him—ruthless predators who thrived in shadows. But comprehension only struck now. His chilling composure wasn't performance art. If he chose, he could erase her existence without blinking.

"Why can't I work retail?" Victoria fought to keep her voice airy, deliberately injecting confusion into her tone.

She kept her back turned, fussing with the peonies in the crystal vase. "Is it the incongruity? Trust fund girl with a penthouse and Porsche, yet clocking shifts at a bodega?"

Her laugh came out brittle. "Truth is, the Clarke fortune built this life. The kidnapping changed everything." Andrew's gaze sharpened imperceptibly at her revelation. He remained silent, observing as she rearranged stems with trembling fingers. Whatever calculations ran behind those cold eyes, they stayed hidden.

"After the ransom, I became society's favorite punchline. Not a love story—just another dynastic transaction."

She shrugged like the memory didn't sting. "In our circles, once they brand you pathetic, the mark never fades. So I took the graveyard shift. Gave me something to focus on besides the whispers." She turned suddenly, meeting his gaze. "Is a heiress stocking shelves really so unbelievable?"

Andrew's grip on the Glock didn't falter, but she noted he hadn't raised it either. Emboldened, she let her voice crack. "The ransom gutted us. Dad mortgaged Clarke Industries just to keep creditors at bay."

Her shoulders slumped under invisible weight. The lie tasted bitter—the Clarkes still summered in Monaco—but she needed his sympathy. "Every family dinner feels like my funeral. That's why I live alone now."

A delicate finger brushed beneath her eye. "Now that you've seen behind the curtain, you must think I'm pathetic."

Andrew watched her sink to the floor, arms wrapped around bent knees. The tremors in her slender frame suggested tears, though he knew better. His jaw tightened.

The Morgans had once ruled Wall Street too, before the wolves tore them apart. He'd endured the same knives in the dark. "I took Victoria because she's engaged to Sebastian. If Isabella recognized me, she'd never have brought me here."

His shadow fell across her as he stepped closer. Victoria looked up—cheeks flushed, lashes damp. The picture of shattered vulnerability. Before reason intervened, his hand settled on her crown. "Enough."

She blinked. "That's your comfort? No 'there there,' just 'shut up'?"

Her dramatic collapse onto the hardwood would've been comical if not for the calculating glint in her eyes. "Couldn't you at least pretend to care?"

Andrew exhaled sharply. "I don't..."

"Don't what?"

"Don't pity you." Simple. Direct. Answering her unspoken question.

Victoria froze. The script wasn't supposed to include genuine moments. "You believe me?" she whispered.

"What's your name?" she tried again when he didn't respond.

His lips parted then sealed.

Changing tactics, Victoria produced a shattered iPhone, transferring the SIM to an outdated model. Andrew noted the four-year-old device.

"Looks like my loan's going delinquent," she quipped.

Silence.

"Well, couch privileges until you heal. But remember—you owe me." She emerged from her bedroom tossing a cashmere throw onto the sectional.

Her real thoughts ran colder: "Keeping him close is the play. I need to unravel who Andrew Morgan really is."

"Sleep tight." The bedroom door clicked shut.

Andrew stared at the blush-pink blanket and first-aid supplies. Without her interference, he'd be bleeding out in some alley.

Pain lanced through his shoulder as he surveyed the apartment. Sunlight streamed through gauzy curtains onto the cream sectional. Fresh orchids perfumed the air. Every detail screamed curated comfort—a far cry from the safehouses he knew.

At 6'3", the sofa barely accommodated his frame. The juxtaposition of his bloodstained shirt against pearl cushions would've amused him if exhaustion hadn't won. He slid the Glock beneath a pillow just as dawn painted the skyline gold.

XXXXX

First light found Evelyn awake, studying Alexander's sleeping form slumped beside her bed.

"He stayed all night?" Her fingers hovered near his jawline before snatching back.

The realization unsettled her. She'd demanded divorce papers; his refusal meant nothing would change. Alexander Whitmore didn't concede—ever.

Yet her decision stood. This limbo of doubt and resentment couldn't continue.

Scrolling Instagram for distraction, Evelyn paused at Natalie's latest post—a backstage celebration with Eldoria Philharmonic's inner circle.

Her breath caught. There stood Maestro Leonard Herty alongside legends she'd worshipped since childhood.

"Has Natalie actually befriended them?" Excitement fizzed through her veins.

She fired off a comment: [Living the dream! I'd sell my soul for five minutes with these icons.]

To her surprise, Natalie replied instantly: [You could be here too.]

Evelyn dismissed it as politeness until another DM arrived—an application packet for Brookstone Conservatory.

Natalie typed: [Their performance program places students alongside touring virtuosos. Two months until auditions.]

Evelyn's chest ached. She'd buried such dreams years ago.

Another notification: [Seriously, with your technique? Give it two years and you'll headline at Carnegie Hall.]

"Headline?" The fantasy alone terrified her.

The final attachment made her pulse spike—a backstage pass for next week's gala. Natalie's message glowed: [Your first lesson starts here.]