Chapter 8
Harley's hand froze on the brass door handle. Her knuckles turned white from how hard she was gripping it.
Jaidyn's words were a precision strike to her only weak point.
She slowly turned her head. Over her shoulder, she saw Leo. Kian had picked the boy up. Leo was reaching his small, trembling arms toward her, his face buried in Kian's shoulder, crying silently. The absolute heartbreak in the child's eyes made Harley's chest physically ache.
She cursed herself silently. You are too soft.
She let go of the door handle. She walked with heavy, angry steps back to the small desk near the bed. She grabbed a blank prescription pad and a heavy Montblanc fountain pen lying next to it. She pulled the cap off with a sharp snap.
Jaidyn stood by the door, watching her. He saw the fire in her eyes, the aggressive way she moved. A faint, almost invisible smirk touched his lips.
Harley leaned over the desk. The pen flew across the paper. With quick, fluid strokes, she drew a small cartoon knight wearing a helmet and holding a sword. Next to it, she wrote in sharp, elegant handwriting:
Brave little knight, I will come back to see you. - Harley.
She ripped the paper from the pad. She didn't hand it to Jaidyn. She walked straight to Kian and tucked the note into Leo's small, clenched fist.
She reached up and wiped a tear from Leo's cheek with her thumb. "Be tough," she whispered.
She turned around and walked out the door. She didn't look at Jaidyn once.
The heavy door clicked shut behind her.
Jaidyn stared at the closed door. The amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dark, consuming obsession.
Kian shivered. "Jaidyn, let her go. That woman is a feral cat. She's going to bite you."
Jaidyn slowly adjusted his cufflink. "A wild cat is only valuable once it's broken and tamed," he murmured.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his Chief of Staff.
"Two things," Jaidyn ordered, his voice cold and mechanical. "First, buy the building next to Harley Vance's apartment in Brooklyn. Set up a full surveillance perimeter. Second, find out who she was supposed to meet at the club last night. Cut off every single resource that agency has."
He hung up.
Meanwhile, Harley pushed through the revolving doors of the hospital. The crisp, freezing morning air of New York hit her face, waking her up.
She checked the time on her phone. 7:30 AM.
She ran to the curb and threw her hand up. A yellow cab screeched to a halt. She pulled the door open and slid into the back seat.
"Queens. The old factory lots," Harley told the driver.
It was the secret casting location for the epic blockbuster Rise of the Warlord.
As the cab bounced over the potholes of the Manhattan Bridge, Harley pulled up her hoodie. She grabbed the roll of medical tape she had stolen from the hospital room. She wrapped the thick tape tightly around her waist, binding the stitches so they wouldn't tear open when she moved.
The driver looked in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening as he watched her aggressively tape her own bleeding ribs. He swallowed hard and pressed the gas pedal down further.
Harley leaned her head back against the cold window. She closed her eyes, running through the complex sword choreography she had memorized last night.
Back in the hospital room, Leo had finally stopped crying. He lay in the bed, holding the small piece of paper against his chest. He fell asleep.
Jaidyn walked over to the bed. He gently pulled the note from Leo's fingers.
He looked at the drawing of the little knight. His eyes narrowed.
The drawing wasn't just a doodle. The lines were incredibly confident, the shading perfect. It had a distinct, artistic soul to it. It was the stroke of a master designer, not a desperate stunt double.
Jaidyn's intuition flared. Harley Vance was hiding something massive.
He pulled out his phone, snapped a high-resolution photo of the drawing, and sent it to his most trusted, art-savvy personal aide. Keep this strictly between us. Cross-reference this style against emerging underground artists and designers. I want to know who she is, he typed.
The yellow cab pulled up to the rusted gates of the Queens factory lot. Harley shoved a twenty-dollar bill at the driver and stepped out.
The lot was packed with luxury trailers and black SUVs. Beautiful, perfectly styled Hollywood actresses stood in small groups, sipping green juice and waiting for their turn.
Harley walked through them. Her cheap hoodie was stained with dirt and a faint patch of blood. Her canvas bag looked like garbage. The actresses sneered, whispering and stepping away from her as she passed.
Harley didn't care. She walked straight to the casting tent. Her eyes were locked on the prize.
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