CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-ONE
The cabin lights bedimmed as the airplane descended into New York’s restless skyline. Isabella Hartley pressed her forepart to the cool window, the megacity’s grid of lights shimmering beneath her win. She traced the faint scar — still pigmented with pink — from the letter Victoria Ashford had scorched into her meat. Christian sat beside her, jaw gripped, watching her reflection. His acclimatized suit, always pristine, sounded incongruous against the raw pressure etched into his eyes.

When the bus touched concrete, Isabella uncurled, her chine stiff with fatigue and resoluteness. They moved through customs in near-silence, Christian’s hand brushing hers now and also — an anchor against the once week’s turbulence. The megacity’s hum ate them back, honking cornucopias, distant enchantresses, and the low grumble of shelter trains beneath the thoroughfares.

In the advents hall, a foreigner awaited. He wore a watercolor surcoat, collar turned up against the evening bite, and held out a plain white envelope. Isabella’s heart fluttered — every instinct screamed “ peril ” — but she took it. The man melted back into the crowd before she could question him. Christian’s aspect darted to the envelope in her hand.

“ Who was that? ” he asked, voice low.

Isabella tore it open. Outside, a single distance bore a compartmented address in midtown Manhattan. No hand — just the words. Not all ghosts stay buried.

A cold exhilaration ran through her. “ It’s from Victoria, ” Christian rumored.

She shook her head. “ No. This is someone different. Someone who wants me to flashback. ”

Outside, a hack idled by the check. Christian hailed it, and they climbed in. Isabella folded the note sluggishly, fritters pulsing. She slid it into her bag.

“ Do you feel lighter? ” Christian asked once the auto lurched forward.

She exhaled, the weight of Victoria’s pitfalls still heavy in her casket. “ nearly, ” she said, forcing a small smile. But as the skyline rushed past the rain-spattered window, she knew the fight was far from over.

Not all ghosts stay buried.

That night, the megacity pressed in around Gabriella’s garret with the buzz of late-night beaneries, the jargon of rain against exposed slip-up. Isabella and Christian spread the envelope’s address across the glass coffee table, adjoined by empty mugs of chamomile tea. Christian’s brow shadowed with mistrustfulness.

“ We don’t have to go, ” he said, voice hushed. “ You’ve done enough. ”

Isabella traced the published letters with a fingertip. “ Closure or chaos, ” she muttered. “ I need to finish this. ”

Gabriella looked up from her laptop. “ Whatever’s staying there, it’s part of Victoria’s final play. More to face it head-on. ”

Christian ran a hand through his hair. “ If it’s a trap — ”

She stood, picking up her violin case as though it were armor. “ Every trap Victoria set, I’ve turned against her. This time won’t be different. ”

An uneasy silence thickened the room. Also, Isabella slipped on her fleece. “ Let’s go. ”

They caught a hack to the Flatiron District. The rain had eased to a mizzle. At the corner of Fifth and 24th, the motorist stopped. Isabella paid and stepped onto the slick sidewalk, Christian near before.

The structure impended an aging brownstone with illuminated services behind altitudinous windows. A small brass nameplate glinted beside a heavy mahogany door — Ashford & Associates.

Christian swallowed. “ That’s her establishment, ” he said.

She pressed her win to the cool brass. It felt too familiar — Victoria’s sphere of power and dishonesty. Isabella lifted her chin. “ also, let’s open the door. ”

Ashford & Associates.

Inside, the lobby was vacated. Polished marble bottoms stretched beneath a bounded ceiling, lit by a single chandelier. At the far end stood one solitary office. A woman in a cortege-blue suit appeared from a side hallway, heels clicking against a gravestone. Her dark hair was a severe posy; her poise suggested both capability and computation.

“ You were anticipated, ” she said, uncurling a mound of flyers in the office. Her voice was crisp, businesslike.

Isabella opened her violin case at her side, an unconscious gesture of comfort. “ Who are you? ” she asked.

The woman offered a thin smile. “ My name is Lillian Prado. I’m Victoria Ashford’s superintendent liaison — kind of a postscript to her conglomerate. ”

Christian stepped forward. “ Is Victoria then? ”

Prado shook her head. “ She’s indisposed. But this ” — she slid a thick legal document across the office — “ is her last directive. ”

Isabella’s casket constricted as she flipped through the runners. Shares, board movables, advancing rights Victoria had inked over controlling interest in Ashford & Associates and its parent company, the prestigious Veritas Music Group.

Christian’s hand set up Isabella’s. She read the final line: “ Upon my death — or immediate incapacitation — Ms. Hartley inherits completely advancing shares in Veritas Music Group. All previous agreements are null and void. ”

Isabella’s breath caught. The veritably firm that had tried to destroy her now lay in her hands.

Victoria left her controlling shares of an important music establishment.