Chapter 2 - The Stolen Formula
By midnight, the Tribeca penthouse was operating like a military command center.
Downstairs in Gabriel’s private study, three computer monitors glowed in the dark, flashing streams of encrypted data, flight manifests, and bank routing numbers. Marcus and two other top-tier operatives were moving silently across the room, mapping out Celeste Vance’s digital footprint.
I sat in the kitchen, nursing a mug of black coffee while the envelope of cash sat on the marble island beside me. The fifteen thousand dollars was real—crisp hundred-dollar bills banded together by bank wrappers. It was enough to clear my mother’s past-due balance at St. Jude’s and prepay her chemotherapy cycle for the next two months.
Yet I couldn't bring myself to put it in my bag.
“You’re not sleeping,” a deep voice murmured from the doorway.
I jumped, spilling a drop of coffee over the rim of the mug. Gabriel stood leaning against the doorframe, his suit jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Without the barrier of expensive tailoring, he looked even more formidable—all hard lines, heavy shoulders, and suppressed violence.
“I don't sleep well when I’m worried about my mother,” I answered honestly, setting the mug down. “And honestly, it’s hard to sleep when you know a high-society art historian tried to poison your four-year-old niece.”
Gabriel walked over to the island, pouring himself a cup of black coffee without asking. He didn't look tired; his eyes were hyper-focused, gleaming with a cold, relentless energy.
“Celeste isn't just an art historian,” Gabriel said, taking a slow sip. “She’s the brains behind her family’s old money. When Elena and I married, her parents thought I was a street thug dragging their precious daughter into the gutter. They tolerated me because my money bought them protection, but Celeste never forgave her sister for choosing a man from the docks.”
“And that’s why she tried to kill her own niece?” I asked, my voice rising in disbelief. “Over old family snobbery?”
“Not just snobbery,” Gabriel corrected, his jaw tightening. “Money. Control. When Elena died in that car crash three months ago—the crash the police ruled an unfortunate accident—she left her personal shares of the Varrick shipping conglomerate to Lily, held in a trust controlled by me. But if Lily died before turning eighteen, or if I was legally incapacitated, the trust reverted to Elena’s nearest living blood relative.”
My breath caught. “Celeste.”
“Exactly,” Gabriel said, slamming his coffee mug onto the marble with enough force to make the ceramic ring. “She didn't want to just punish me; she wanted my empire, and she was willing to sacrifice a four-year-old child to get it.”
“Have you found her?” I asked, leaning forward against the counter.
“Marcus traced her secondary burner phone to a private airstrip in Teterboro,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping an octave. “She chartered a Gulfstream under a shell corporation. She’s flying out to Zurich by sunrise.”
“We have to stop her,” I said instantly.
Gabriel looked at me, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. “You want to help me hunt down my sister-in-law?”
“I want to make sure she never comes anywhere near Lily again,” I corrected, standing up and crossing my arms. “You think because I’m a temporary nanny I don't understand stakes? My mother is fighting for her life in a hospital bed across town, and some wealthy academic tried to starve an innocent little girl because she wanted a bigger portfolio? No, Mr. Varrick. We stop her.”
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For the first time since I had walked through the penthouse doors, Gabriel Varrick smiled. It wasn't a warm smile, but it was real—a sharp, approving curve of the lips that made him look dangerously attractive.
“Get your coat, Claire,” he said, turning toward the hallway. “We’re taking a ride to New Jersey.”
