The High Price Of Father's Freedom

Abbey Wynn tucked her clutch under her arm and pressed her back against the cool plaster of the wall, trying to make herself as two-dimensional as possible. She wasn't here for the conversation. She was here because the invitation had promised an open buffet, and her refrigerator currently contained a half-empty jar of pickles and a carton of milk that expired two days ago.

She adjusted the lapel of her blazer. It was a thrift store find, oversized to hide the fact that the silk dress underneath had been washed by hand so many times the hem was starting to fray. A far cry from the bespoke suits she'd catalogued in her old life as an assistant at Sotheby's, before her father's name became a headline and her career became collateral damage. Now, law school was her only path to redemption-his and hers. She watched the crowd of law students and junior associates mingle, their laughter sharp and jagged against the low hum of jazz.

"You're blocking the shrimp," a voice said.

Abbey flinched. She stepped aside, murmuring an apology to a girl in a red dress who didn't even look at her. Abbey checked her phone. Twenty minutes. She just needed to stay twenty more minutes to justify the subway fare, then she could wrap a few sliders in a napkin and leave.

"Abbey? Abbey Wynn?"

Her stomach tightened. She recognized the voice before she saw the face. It was a guy from her Torts class, someone whose name she had intentionally forgotten. She turned, plastering on a polite, hollow smile.

"Hi," she said.

"I didn't think you came to these things," he said, his eyes scanning her outfit with a little too much scrutiny. "You're usually... gone."

"I have a lot of studying to do," Abbey said, shifting her weight. "Actually, I was just heading out."

"Wait, hold on."

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, but not for her. Miles Sterling was cutting through the room, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and an expression of supreme confidence on his face. He was loud, wealthy, and had decided three weeks ago that Abbey was his new project.

"Abbey!" Miles boomed. Heads turned. Abbey felt the heat creep up her neck, a physical rash of embarrassment. "I knew I'd find you near the food. You have a metabolism I'd kill for."

He stopped in front of her, blocking her exit. He smelled of expensive gin and entitlement.

"Hi, Miles," she said, her voice tight.

"Here." He thrust a flute of champagne at her. "Ditch that white wine. It smells like vinegar. My dad's private stock is behind the bar."

"I'm fine, really," Abbey said, keeping her hands clasped. "I was just leaving."

"Leaving? The night hasn't even started." Miles stepped closer, invading her personal space. He reached out, his fingers brushing her elbow. "Come on. Let me drive you home later. The Ferrari is out front."

"No, thank you," Abbey said. She took a step back.

"Don't be like that." Miles laughed, stepping forward again. "You're playing hard to get, and it's working, but give a guy a break."

Abbey took another step back, desperate for air. Her heel caught on the edge of the carpet. She stumbled, her back colliding hard with a heavy velvet rope. The metal stanchion wobbled, clanging against the floor.

The sound cut through the chatter. Silence rippled outward from them.

A security guard near the VIP section turned, his face setting into a scowl. Abbey's heart hammered against her ribs. She muttered a frantic "I'm sorry" and turned to steady the stanchion.

As she grabbed the velvet rope, her gaze lifted. She looked past the guard's broad shoulder, into the dim, amber-lit recess of the VIP booth.

And her heart stopped. It didn't just skip a beat; it seized, a painful, physical halt that sucked the air from her lungs.

Sitting in the center of the leather banquette was a man holding a tumbler of whiskey. He wasn't talking. He wasn't smiling. He was staring directly at her.

Armond Woodward.

For a second, the room dissolved. The smell of cheap perfume and hors d'oeuvres vanished, replaced by the phantom scent of rain and fresh espresso-Paris, seven years ago. She saw the way the sunlight used to hit his hair on the balcony of the apartment they had rented in the 4th arrondissement. She felt the ghost of his hands on her waist.

But the man in the booth wasn't the Armond she knew. That Armond had been "Armond Chevalier," a quiet American student with a gentle smile.

This man was Armond Woodward, the COO of a media empire, a predator in a bespoke suit. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits that locked onto hers with terrifying precision. There was no surprise in his expression. No warmth. Just a cold, calculating recognition that made her knees buckle.

He raised his glass an inch. A mock toast. His lips curled slightly, not in a smile, but in a grim acknowledgment. Found you.

Bile rose in Abbey's throat. The room spun. The noise of the party rushed back in a deafening wave.

"Abbey?" Miles asked, reaching for her again. "You look like you're going to pass out."

She shoved Miles's arm away. The motion was violent, purely instinctual. Champagne sloshed over the rim of his glass, splashing onto his cuff.

"Hey!" Miles exclaimed.

Abbey didn't apologize. She couldn't speak. Her fight-or-flight response had slammed the lever all the way to flight. She turned and ran.

She pushed past a waiter, ignored the indignant gasps, and shoved open the emergency exit door. The cold New York wind hit her face like a slap, shocking her lungs into working again. She scrambled down the concrete steps to the street, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the pavement.

She leaned against the rough brick wall of the alley, gasping for air. Her hands shook so badly she couldn't unzip her purse. She needed a cigarette. She didn't smoke anymore-she couldn't afford the habit-but she kept a crumpled pack for emergencies. This was an emergency.

She pulled out a cigarette but didn't light it. She just crushed the filter between her fingers, grounding herself in the physical sensation of destroying something.

He saw me. He knows.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. A text from Miles: You okay? I saw you run. That was weird, Abbey.

She deleted the thread without reading the rest. She flagged down a yellow cab, her arm heavy as lead.

"East Village," she rasped as she climbed in. "Please, just drive."

As the taxi pulled away, Abbey looked into the side mirror. The heavy doors of the venue opened. Two men in black suits stepped out, scanning the street. They weren't looking for a taxi. They were looking for a target.

Abbey sank low in the seat, squeezing her eyes shut. But the darkness behind her eyelids offered no safety. All she could see was Armond's face. That look. It wasn't the look of an ex-lover. It was the look of a man who had just located a missing asset.

When she got back to her cramped apartment, her roommate Sophie was on the couch, a green sheet mask plastered to her face.

"Any hot guys?" Sophie asked, her voice muffled.

"Just old men," Abbey lied. Her voice sounded brittle, like dry leaves.

She went straight to the bathroom and turned the faucet on full blast. She splashed freezing water onto her face, trying to scrub away the feeling of Armond's gaze. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide and terrified. She looked like prey.

She walked back out to the living room, drying her face with a rough towel. Sophie had flipped the channel to the financial news.

"Check this out," Sophie said. "Real life Succession stuff."

The TV screen showed a graphic: WOODWARD GROUP: HOSTILE TAKEOVER THREAT.

And there was his picture. Armond Woodward. He was walking out of a courthouse, surrounded by microphones. He looked devastatingly handsome and utterly cruel.

"Apparently, if he doesn't get married by his thirty-fifth birthday-which is in, like, three weeks-he loses voting control," Sophie narrated, peeling the mask off her chin. "Can you imagine? Needing a wife that bad?"

Abbey stared at the screen. The ticker tape at the bottom scrolled past her father's name in a related story about financial scandals.

Her blood ran cold. Armond didn't just need a wife. He needed leverage. And tonight, he had found both.