"Where are you going?!" Clarissa shrieked, causing more heads to turn.
Julian left Clarissa fuming at the table and stormed into the elevator. He dialed his head of security, a former MI6 agent named Silas.
"Silas, I need you to track a woman. She just left the Obsidian Room, staff entrance. She goes by Ella Evans, but that's an alias. I need everything: traffic cams, subway logs, everything."
"On it, boss. What did she do? Steal silverware?" Silas asked, his voice crackling over the line.
"No," Julian said, stepping out into the cool night air of Fifth Avenue. "She stole the show. And I think she's the missing soprano from the Vienna scandal."
Julian got into his black limousine. He closed his eyes and replayed the moment: the high F6, the pain in her voice.
He remembered the scandal: five years ago, Elara Vance was the rising star of the opera world. Then accusations of theft, a leaked video of her appearing intoxicated (which she claimed was drugged), and a sudden disappearance. The world thought she had committed suicide or run off with a lover.
Why is she waiting tables in my restaurant?
Meanwhile, in a cramped basement apartment in Astoria, Queens, Elara was throwing clothes into a duffel bag. Her hands were moving fast: a couple of T-shirts, her worn-out jeans, a locket containing a picture of her parents. She stopped when she saw the framed newspaper clipping she kept hidden under her mattress. It was a review from the Vienna Post dated five years ago: Vance: The Voice of an Angel, the Heart of a Thief.
She crumpled the paper in her hand. Marcus Thorne had planted the evidence. He had drugged her before the performance, causing her to stumble, and then "found" the missing funds in her locker. He did it because she had refused his advances, because she threatened to expose his corruption. He was powerful, connected, and untouchable. She was just a girl from Ohio with a scholarship.
"I can't run again," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm tired of running."
She heard a car door slam outside. Her window was at street level. She froze. She peered through the blinds: a black SUV was idling, double-parked. Two men in suits were stepping out. They weren't police; they looked like private security.
Julian Sterling worked fast.
Elara grabbed her bag. She couldn't go out the front door; she had to use the fire escape in the back alley. She scrambled out the small bathroom window, skinning her knee on the concrete. She landed in the garbage-strewn alleyway just as she heard heavy pounding on her apartment door.
"Miss Evans, we just want to talk!" a deep voice boomed.
Elara sprinted down the alley. She didn't have a plan; she just knew she couldn't be dragged back into that world. But as she turned the corner onto the main street, a sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb, blocking her path.
The rear window rolled down. Julian Sterling sat there, looking calm, composed, and utterly terrifying.
"Running away before the wedding, darling?" he called out, his voice smooth. "That's bad luck."
Elara backed away, looking for an escape route. "Leave me alone. I didn't take your ring."
Julian opened the door and stepped out. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I know you didn't. I'm not here about the ring." He took a step closer. Under the streetlights, he looked less like a billionaire and more like a man desperate for answers. "I know who you are, Elara," he said softly.
Elara stopped breathing. The name hung in the air between them like a guillotine blade.
"You're Elara Vance," Julian continued. "And I know you didn't steal that money in Vienna."
Elara's eyes widened. "How? How could you possibly know that? Everyone thinks I did."
"Because," Julian said, taking another step, "Marcus Thorne tried to do the same thing to my sister six months before she died."
The interior of the limousine was silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the soft hiss of the tires on the wet asphalt. It smelled of expensive leather and cedarwood, a scent that made Elara feel dizzy after the stale air of the subway. She sat as far away from Julian as possible, pressing her back against the door.
"Your sister?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What does your sister have to do with Marcus Thorne?"
Julian poured a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter, his hand steady, though his jaw was clenched tight. He didn't offer her any; he downed it in one swallow.
"Her name was Arya," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its polished billionaire sheen. "She was a cellist. First-chair potential. She went to Vienna on a fellowship, just like you. She met Marcus Thorne. He promised her the world: solo recitals, recordings, protection."
Julian looked out the window at the passing city lights, his eyes cold.
"He used her. He isolated her from us. And when she got pregnant, he told her she was ruining his career. He threatened to blacklist her if she didn't get rid of the problem. She... she didn't handle the pressure well. We lost her three years ago."
Elara felt a cold chill settle in her stomach. She knew Thorne was a monster, a predator who hid behind his baton and his prestige, but she hadn't realized the trail of bodies he left behind.
"I'm sorry," Elara said softly. "I didn't know."
"No one knows," Julian snapped, turning back to her. "Because Thorne is a national treasure. Because he has powerful friends. Because without proof, I'm just a grieving brother throwing mud at a legend." He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. "But you—you are living proof. You survived him. He destroyed your reputation, planted that money, and drove you into hiding. If we combine my resources with your story, we can bury him."
Elara shook her head, hugging her duffel bag to her chest. "I can't. He's too powerful. If I come forward, the press will just dig up the old scandals. They'll say I'm a thief and a liar. I have no credibility. I'm just a waitress."
"Not anymore," Julian said intensely. "That's why I made that scene in the restaurant. That's why I offered you the ring."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the velvet box. He tossed it onto the seat between them.
"I need a wife, Elara. My board of directors is breathing down my neck to settle down, to improve my public image. They think I'm too volatile. And I need a way to get close to Thorne without him suspecting I'm coming for his throat."