Chapter 3
The elevator ascended silently to the top floor of the gleaming downtown tower. I clutched my small purse tighter, feeling the weight of the decision I'd made. My reflection in the polished doors looked almost unrecognizable—hollow-eyed, pale, but determined.
The doors slid open to reveal a minimalist reception area. "Ms. Porter," the receptionist said with practiced neutrality. "Mr. Washington is expecting you."
I followed her through a corridor of glass and steel to a corner office that seemed to float above the city. Ricardo Washington stood as I entered, his tall frame silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Veda Porter," he said, his voice deep and measured. "I've been expecting you."
He gestured to a chair across from his desk. I noticed how his eyes assessed me—not with the pity I'd grown accustomed to since the wedding disaster, but with something more analytical.
"Thank you for seeing me," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I need your help."
"I'm listening." He sat down, folding his hands on the desk.
I took a breath. "I need to disappear. Completely. A new identity, new documentation, a way to start over where no one can find me."
He didn't flinch, didn't blink. "That's a serious request."
"It's a serious situation." I met his gaze directly. "I can pay whatever it costs."
Ricardo leaned back in his chair. "Money is the least of my concerns. What I need to know is why."
I hesitated, my fingers automatically reaching for my mother's necklace. "I've been betrayed by the people I trusted most. I'm not safe where I am."
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps, or recognition. "And the Baker family? They won't be looking for you?"
The mention of Tyler's name sent a jolt through me. "They're the reason I need to disappear."
He studied me for a long moment. "This isn't just a business transaction for you, is it?"
"No," I whispered. "It's survival."
He nodded slowly. "I'll help you."
---
Over the next week, I met with Ricardo five times. Each meeting was in his private study—a room that contrasted sharply with his sleek office. Here, leather-bound books lined the walls, and a fireplace cast warm light across comfortable chairs.
"We need to discuss your new identity," he said during our third meeting, spreading documents across a coffee table. "Your name, background, financial arrangements."
I watched his hands as he arranged the papers—steady, efficient, yet somehow gentle. So different from Tyler's possessive grip.
"Vivian Chen," he suggested. "Canadian citizen, art historian, no living relatives."
"Vivian," I repeated, testing the name on my tongue. "It feels... distant."
"That's the point," he said, his eyes meeting mine. "You're not meant to be comfortable with it. Yet."
I nodded, noticing how he'd positioned the chair so I could see the garden outside. Small details that Tyler would never have considered.
"Will I be able to paint?" I asked suddenly.
He looked surprised by the question. "Of course. Your new identity includes an apartment in Florence."
The mention of Florence made me touch my mother's necklace again. She had dreamed of going there.
Ricardo noticed the gesture. "That necklace," he said quietly. "It means a lot to you."
I nodded, unable to speak.
---
Rain pattered against the windows of Ricardo's study as we finalized the last details of my new life. Outside, the city lights blurred through the water-streaked glass.
"You'll leave next Tuesday," he said, handing me a passport. "Everything is arranged."
I took the document, running my fingers over the unfamiliar name. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," he replied. "You're leaving everything behind."
"Yes," I said simply.
He studied me for a moment. "May I ask what you'll do in Florence?"
I looked up at him, surprised by the personal question. "I'll visit the Uffizi Gallery. My mother always wanted to go there."
Something softened in his expression. "Tell me about her."
The question caught me off guard. No one had asked me about my mother since her funeral.
"She was... kind," I began, my voice catching. "Too kind for the world she lived in."
Ricardo didn't interrupt, didn't offer platitudes. He simply listened as I spoke about her gardens, her laugh, her unwavering belief in love and family.
When I finally fell silent, he spoke softly. "I understand betrayal better than you might think."
"How so?" I asked.
"My father," he said after a pause. "He left us when I was twelve. Disappeared completely."
I stared at him, seeing a glimpse of vulnerability beneath his composed exterior.
"The people we trust the most," he continued, "can hurt us the deepest."
The rain intensified outside, drumming against the windows. In that moment, something shifted between us—a recognition, perhaps, of shared pain.
"What happens now?" I asked quietly.
His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw something beyond professional interest there. "Now," he said softly, "we wait for Tuesday."
But as he spoke, I realized something had changed. This was no longer just a business arrangement. And I wasn't sure if that made me safer—or more vulnerable than ever.
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