The Heiress Who Erased Her Billionaire Ex

Axel sat at his desk, staring blankly at the financial report glowing on his tablet. He didn't see the numbers. All he could see was the look on Claire's face in that diner. He didn't know why he was thinking about it. Hayes had called him right after she left. Hayes had been rattled. He had told Axel about the quick signature, the lack of tears. He had told Axel about the phone call to the real estate agent.

Axel's hand twitched. He threw the tablet onto the leather couch across the room. It hit the cushions with a dull thud. He stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the city below. He felt a tight, burning sensation in his chest. He had won. He had paid her off. She was gone. So why did he feel like he was choking?

He turned away from the view and buzzed his assistant. "Cancel my lunch," he barked. "And get me Hayes."

He needed control. He needed to know she was sitting in some cheap apartment, crying over the money she had lost by selling the house so fast. He needed to know she was suffering without him.

Across the bridge in SoHo, the sun was streaming through a wall of old, cast-iron windows. The loft was on the top floor of a converted factory. The floors were scarred pine, the walls exposed brick painted white. It smelled like dust, old wood, and fresh paint. It was raw and bright and loud.

Claire stood in the middle of the empty space, her duffel bag at her feet. She had signed the lease an hour ago. The landlord hadn't cared about her lack of references; the certified check for a full year's rent had spoken for itself.

The heavy metal door groaned open. Vivian Shaw walked in. Vivian was a force of nature. She was wearing a razor-sharp blazer, stilettos that clicked like machine guns on the floor, and carrying an oversized tote bag overflowing with portfolios and a coffee cup. She was the top PR agent in the art world, and she was Claire's oldest friend.

Vivian stopped dead in the doorway. She looked at the empty, sunlit room. She looked at Claire, who was standing there in her wet jeans and canvas shoes, looking like a ghost. Vivian dropped her bag. She didn't say a word. She just crossed the room in three strides and pulled Claire into a hug so tight it forced the air out of her lungs.

"Three years," Vivian whispered fiercely into her hair. "Three years, Claire. You look like you've been living in a crypt."

Claire hugged her back, burying her face in Vivian's sharp shoulder. "It's over, Viv."

"It better be," Vivian said, pulling back. She grabbed Claire's face in her hands, her thumbs swiping at the dark circles under Claire's eyes. "I swear, if you came here to tell me you're going back to that narcissistic, trust-fund brat, I'm pushing you out that window right now."

"I'm not going back," Claire said. Her voice was calm. There was no tremor. "He's dead to me."

Vivian stared into her eyes, searching for a lie. She must not have found one, because she let out a long breath and dropped her hands. "Good. Because I have a reputation to protect, and I wasn't going to let you drag it through the mud anymore."

Claire walked over to her duffel bag. She unzipped it and pulled out her backpack. She opened it and took out the black case. She carried it over to the large wooden table in the center of the room and set it down. She popped the latches and opened the lid.

Vivian walked over, sipping her coffee. She glanced down at the case. She froze. The coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth.

"Sera," Vivian said slowly. "You're seriously going back to photography? You haven't shot professionally in three years. The industry moves fast. People forget."

Claire held the camera up to her eye. She pointed it at the window, framing the sky. The metal was cool and heavy in her hands. The weight felt like coming home.

"I know," Claire said, her eye pressed to the viewfinder. "The cage is open, Viv."

Vivian's face split into a slow, predatory grin. She didn't ask if Claire was ready. She didn't ask if she was sure. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a thick, black external hard drive. She slammed it on the table next to the camera.

"Then let's see if you still have the eye," Vivian said. "What have you got?"

Claire lowered the camera. She reached into her backpack again and pulled out a smaller, encrypted hard drive. It was matte black and looked like a brick.

"Three thousand images," Claire said. She placed it on the table. "I didn't stop working, Viv. I just couldn't publish. I shot everything. The galas. The board meetings. The private breakdowns. The real faces behind the money."

Vivian stared at the hard drive like it was a nuclear warhead. Her eyes were wide. She reached out and touched it with one manicured fingernail. "You're kidding," she breathed. "You've been secretly shooting while playing housewife to Axel Carroll?"

Claire didn't answer. She just looked at the drive. "They're raw. They need to be processed. But the core is there."

Vivian grabbed her laptop from her bag and flipped it open. "Plug it in," she demanded. "Plug it in right now. We need a launch strategy. We need a statement. We need-"

"We need a gallery," Claire interrupted. "A big one. I want a solo show within the month."

Vivian paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She looked up at Claire. The calculated PR machine was back in her eyes. "A secret show. Unannounced. That's the move." She looked back at the screen. "I'll make some calls."

Claire turned back to the window, lifting the camera again. She focused on a pigeon sitting on the fire escape. She adjusted the aperture. She felt the familiar click of the mechanics inside the metal body. The world outside the lens was messy and loud. Inside the lens, she could control it all.