Chapter 1 - THE FOUR-MILLION-DOLLAR BETRAYAL
Spencer Harrington told a room full of strangers I was going to marry him before he ever asked me.
Seconds later, Gabriel Costa threw him onto the marble floor and pulled me toward the exit.
Only when we reached the waiting car did I learn that one man had planned to sell me—and the other had been keeping secrets about me for years.
Spencer’s hand tightened at my waist when the photographer raised his camera. I smiled because he had already reminded me twice that evening what an awkward expression could do to a photograph. Behind us, champagne glasses chimed beneath the towering arches of Cipriani Wall Street.
“Richard Carrington is looking,” Spencer murmured. “Try to appear happy.”
“I am trying.”
“If I land his portfolio, we can start looking at penthouses.”
I looked down at my emerald silk gown. He had chosen it, paid for it, and sent someone to my studio with instructions about alterations. Now he spoke about an apartment I had never asked for.
“I like where I live.”
“You like what you can afford.”
His smile never moved.
Four months earlier, I had mistaken that confidence for steadiness. Spencer remembered reservations, knew which entrances avoided crowds, and sent flowers when work kept me late. Only gradually had his thoughtfulness acquired conditions.
Answer the phone. Wear the dress. Don’t contradict me in front of people.
Across the ballroom, conversations shifted. Men turned their heads, then adjusted their expressions before the newcomer reached them.
Gabriel Costa had arrived.
I knew his face from business magazines and his reputation from people who lowered their voices after mentioning it. Six months earlier, he had brought an old Italian painting to my Chelsea studio and waited three hours while I examined it.
He had listened when I refused to rush.
That was what I remembered most.
“Don’t look at him,” Spencer said.
“I wasn’t.”
Gabriel was already coming toward us, wearing a midnight-blue suit that made everyone around him seem overdressed. A man I later learned was named Mateo followed several paces behind. Neither looked interested in the conversations opening in their path.
“Spencer,” Gabriel said.
Spencer straightened. “Costa. Expanding into charity work?”
Gabriel looked at the hand pressed against my waist.
“Shantel.”
Hearing my name from him felt unexpectedly personal.
“Mr. Costa.”
“You look beautiful.”
Spencer laughed too quickly.
“Careful. That’s my future wife.”
I turned toward him.
“What?”
“We’re announcing our engagement tonight.”
My fingers tightened around my clutch.
We had never discussed marriage. There was no ring. No proposal. Nothing except his hand holding me in place while strangers began to smile.
“Spencer, we’re not—”
He squeezed harder.
“Don’t do this here.”
Gabriel stepped closer.
“Take your hand off her.”
Spencer’s face changed. The smile remained, but everything beneath it became sharp.
“She’s mine. Back off.”
Gabriel caught the front of his tuxedo.
The movement was so sudden that I heard the room react before I understood it. A glass shattered somewhere nearby. Spencer rose onto his toes, his mouth opening without producing a useful sound.
“Gabriel,” I said.
His eyes found mine.
“You are not marrying him.”
Then he threw Spencer backward.
Spencer struck the edge of a serving table and fell to the marble. Plates slid after him. Somebody shouted for security.
Mateo stepped between the guards and Gabriel.
I moved toward Spencer, but Gabriel caught my wrist.
“We’re leaving.”
“Let go.”
He pulled me through a room that had become frighteningly quiet. My heels slipped against the polished floor. At the doors, cold air struck my bare shoulders, and I finally tore my hand free.
“You can’t drag me out like luggage.”
Gabriel stopped.
Behind him, a black car waited with its rear door open.
“You’re right,” he said. “But we don’t have time.”
“For what?”
He looked back toward the entrance.
“For Spencer to deliver you.”
I stared at him.
“Deliver me where?”
Gabriel’s face became utterly still.
“To the men who agreed to take you instead of his four-million-dollar debt.”
For a moment, the city stopped making sense.
A taxi honked somewhere along Wall Street. Rainwater ran along the curb. Behind the glass doors of Cipriani, people were still gathering around the overturned serving table.
I looked at Gabriel.
“That isn't funny.”
“I know.”
“Spencer is an investment adviser. He doesn't owe four million dollars to people who buy women.”
Gabriel's jaw tightened.
“He isn't selling you as property in a legal transaction, Shantel. He's promised to hand you over to men who intend to imprison you until they get something they believe you possess.”
“What?”
“A painting.”
I stared.
“You threw my boyfriend across a ballroom over a painting?”
“No. I threw him because he was holding you against your will.”
I hated that he was right about that part.
Gabriel took a breath.
“Spencer borrowed money from a private syndicate controlled by Victor Sorelli. His investments collapsed. Sorelli offered to cancel the debt if Spencer delivered you tonight.”
“Why me?”
“Because Sorelli believes your mother hid something inside a painting before she died.”
My breath caught.
“My mother was a kindergarten teacher.”
Gabriel looked at me with an expression I couldn't read.
“Your mother was many things.”
I stepped backward.
“Don't talk about her.”
“Shantel—”
“No. You don't get to arrive at a party, attack my boyfriend, and start inventing stories about my dead mother.”
The door behind us opened.
Spencer emerged, blood on his lower lip.
Two security guards followed.
“There she is!” he shouted. “That's my girlfriend!”
Gabriel shifted slightly in front of me.
Spencer pointed.
“He's kidnapping her!”
Several people turned.
My heart hammered.
Gabriel didn't touch me again.
Instead, he looked directly at me.
“You can stay. You can call the police. You can go anywhere you choose. But please don't leave with Spencer.”
Spencer held out his hand.
“Baby, come here.”
I looked at the man I'd dated for four months.
His perfect hair.
His expensive watch.
His expression of wounded innocence.
Then I remembered his grip on my waist.
Don't contradict me in front of people.
I looked at Gabriel.
“Can you prove what you're saying?”
“Yes.”
“Then show me.”
Spencer's face changed.
“Shantel, don't be stupid.”
Something inside me snapped.
“Don't call me stupid.”
I stepped into Gabriel's car.
Not because he ordered me to.
Because for the first time that evening, someone had given me a choice.
The vehicle pulled away.
Gabriel sat opposite me in the spacious rear compartment.
Mateo occupied the front passenger seat.
I kept my clutch in my lap and my phone in my hand.
“Evidence,” I said.
Gabriel nodded.
He handed me a tablet.
On the screen was a photograph of Spencer entering a private club with a man in a gray coat.
Another image showed a signed debt acknowledgment.
The amount was $4,180,000.
Then Gabriel opened an intercepted message provided by one of his contacts.
Harrington confirms the girl will be at Cipriani. Transfer after announcement. She'll believe it's a private celebration.
I read it twice.
My hands began shaking.
“Who wrote this?”
“Sorelli's operations director.”
“Could it be fake?”
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “Anything digital can be manipulated. That's why I want you to see the original records through an independent attorney.”
I looked up.
His willingness to admit uncertainty frightened me more than a confident lie would have.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To a secure residence. Or to a police station, if that's what you prefer.”
I considered.
“Somewhere I can call my own lawyer.”
“Of course.”
I swallowed.
“And somewhere Spencer can't find me.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Done.”
Twenty minutes later, the car entered a private garage beneath a quiet Upper East Side townhouse.
Gabriel escorted me into a study with dark green walls and a fireplace.
There were no guards inside.
No locked doors.
Just a woman named Lucia who offered me tea and a phone charger.
I called my friend and attorney, Naomi Brooks.
She promised to come immediately.
Only then did I turn toward Gabriel.
“You said my mother hid something in a painting.”
He stood near the fireplace.
“Yes.”
“What painting?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“The one you restored for me six months ago.”
My mouth went dry.
The old Italian portrait.
A woman holding a white lily.
Cracked varnish.
A damaged wooden frame.
Gabriel continued.
“Your mother painted it.”
I stared.
“That's impossible.”
He lowered his voice.
“And the name she signed beneath the original canvas wasn't Evelyn Brooks.”
My knees weakened.
“Then what was it?”
Gabriel looked almost afraid to answer.
“Isabella Costa.”
I stared at him.
Costa.
His name.
My mother's name.
And suddenly I understood that Spencer's betrayal was only the first door opening.
May you like
There were others behind it.
Doors Gabriel Costa had kept closed for years.
