Chapter 4 - The Unraveling of Trent Morrison
Downstairs in the managerial office, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the quiet drama of the second-floor lounge. Marco was busy signing off paperwork and handing out white envelopes containing cash wages to the exhausted catering crew.
When Saraphene walked down the grand staircase side-by-side with Selian Ashford, Marco immediately snapped to attention, his eyes widening in nervous recognition.
“Mr. Ashford,” Marco stammered, smoothing down his vest. “I—I didn’t realize you were still in the building. Is everything alright with the gallery’s exhibition space?”
“Everything is entirely satisfactory, Marco,” Selian replied smoothly, keeping one hand protectively positioned near Saraphene’s elbow. “However, Miss Winters has completed her temporary duties for the evening, and I am personally escorting her out.”
“Oh! Of-of course, sir,” Marco babbled, quickly grabbing a thick white envelope from his desk and sliding it across the wood. “Here is your full evening’s pay plus the gallery’s standard overtime bonus, Miss Winters. Thank you for stepping in on such short notice.”
Before Saraphene could reach for the envelope, Selian beat her to it. He picked it up, slipped it into his own jacket pocket with effortless grace, and looked down at her. “Shall we?”
Saraphene nodded mutely, still operating in a state of mild shock.
They walked out through the grand arched doors of the Beaumont Gallery into the cool, crisp night air of downtown Chicago. The rain had cleared, leaving the wet concrete glistening beneath the amber glow of streetlamps. Parked at the curb directly in front of the steps was a sleek, black Maybach with tinted windows, attended by a uniformed driver who immediately hopped out to open the rear door.
“I can take the subway,” Saraphene protested softly, stopping on the sidewalk. “Or call a cab. You don’t need to—drop me off.”
“You are not taking public transit at one in the morning after being assaulted in a gallery,” Selian said gently, leaving no room for argument. He guided her toward the open door of the luxury vehicle. “Get in, Saraphene. Let me ensure you get home safely.”
Reluctantly, she slid across the plush leather seat of the interior. Selian climbed in beside her, and the heavy door closed with a solid, vault-like thud that shut out the noise of the city.
The car glided smoothly away from the curb into the quiet midnight traffic.
For the first ten minutes, the ride was silent. Saraphene stared out the tinted window at the blurring neon lights of downtown Chicago, her mind racing a million miles an hour. Everything that had happened tonight felt surreal—like stepping into a dark, romantic thriller where she was suddenly the protagonist.
“Where does he live?” Selian asked quietly, breaking the silence.
Saraphene blinked, turning her head to look at him. “Who? Trent?”
“Yes. Where does he live, and where does he work?”
Her spine stiffened with a sudden flash of protective anxiety. “Selian—what are you planning to do? I told you, I just want him to leave me alone. I don’t want you getting into legal trouble or—or hurting him worse than you already did.”
Selian turned his head, meeting her gaze in the dim light of the cabin. A chilling, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“Saraphene, men like Trent Morrison do not understand restraining orders, and they do not understand polite warnings,” he explained, his tone conversational yet dripping with absolute finality. “They only understand total, irreversible consequence. By tomorrow morning, Mr. Morrison will no longer have a job at his high-end financial firm. By tomorrow afternoon, his lease will be terminated, his sports car will be repossessed due to sudden margin calls on his corporate loans, and he will discover that his passport has been flagged for federal tax audits.”
Saraphene’s jaw dropped slightly. She stared at him, realizing with sudden, dizzying clarity the true scale of the power sitting right beside her in the back of this car.
“You’re... you’re not just an antiquities dealer, are you?” she whispered.
Selian chuckled softly, a rich, resonant sound. “I acquire valuable things, Saraphene. And I protect what I value. Sometimes, acquiring peace of mind requires removing every obstacle standing in the way.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the white envelope Marco had given her, and handed it across the console.
“Here is your hard-earned pay,” he said softly. “Though I suspect you won’t be needing to take substitute server shifts at art galleries ever again.”
Saraphene looked down at the envelope, then back up at his face. A strange, overwhelming mixture of safety, gratitude, and undeniable attraction stirred deep within her chest. For eight months, she had felt like a hunted animal. Tonight, for the first time, she felt entirely, beautifully protected.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t even know how to begin to repay you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Selian replied, his gray eyes softening as he looked at her. “Just let me take care of you.”
The Maybach slowed to a gentle stop outside the modest brick apartment building where Saraphene lived. The driver hurried around to open her door, shielding her from the pavement with an umbrella he didn't strictly need.
Saraphene stepped out onto the sidewalk, turning back to look at Selian through the open window of the car.
“Will I... will I see you again?” she asked, surprising herself by the sudden boldness of the question.
Selian reached into his breast pocket once more, pulling out a small, heavy gold-embossed pen and writing a new set of numbers directly onto the back of his business card before handing it out to her.
“That is my personal, direct line,” he said, his gaze holding hers with intense, magnetic focus. “Call me whenever you need anything. Absolutely anything at all. And Saraphene?”
“Yes?”
“Pack your bags tomorrow,” Selian instructed calmly. “You’re moving into a place with better security. I’ll send a car for you by noon.”
May you like
Before she could form a reply, the window rolled up smoothly, and the black Maybach pulled away from the curb, dissolving silently into the Chicago night.
---
