Chapter 4
Sebastian
''Emma Hartley.''
The name meant nothing to me. A stranger from a bar. A woman drowning in grief.
And now my fingers found something at the back of her neck. Slightly raised. A crescent shape.
My entire body went rigid.
A crescent moon. Right side of the neck, just below the hairline. Exactly where Isabelle's was. Exactly the shape I'd been searching for twenty years.
I forced myself to keep my hand moving slowly. But my chest was tight, heart pounding.
Isabelle had this mark. I'd traced it a thousand times over four years, believing she was the one. The little girl who'd saved me when I was eight, drowning at my family's Southampton estate. The girl with a crescent birthmark who'd thrown me a life preserver.
Until six months ago when I'd overheard Isabelle on the phone: "—the scar healed perfectly, you can barely tell it was artificially created—"
She'd hung up immediately. Made an excuse. But the doubt had taken root. What if she'd faked it? Burned herself deliberately to create the mark she knew would make me trust her?
I'd tried to ignore it. That four years together meant something. But I'd never been able to shake it.
And now Emma had the same mark. My fingers traced it again. The skin was smooth. Natural. Not the faint roughness I'd always half-noticed on Isabelle's neck and ignored.
This was a birthmark. A real one.
"What is this?" I heard myself ask.
"Birthmark," she murmured. "I've always had it."
Always.
"Since birth. Why?"
I couldn't answer. Unless Emma was the real one. Twenty years of searching. Four years with Isabelle. If Emma was the real one, everything with Isabelle had been a lie.
I reached for my phone, typing one-handed.
Full background on Emma Hartley. Everything. Priority: childhood and summer 2003. Whether she or her family attended the Pierce estate charity gala in Southampton that year. I need photographic evidence. By 9 AM. —S.P.
Then a second message:
Separately, maximum discretion: investigate whether Isabelle Laurent had dermatological procedures on her neck. Right side, below hairline. Burn treatments, scar revision. Medical records. Same deadline. —S.P.
My phone buzzed at 5:47 AM. I moved to the window.
*Initial findings: Emma Hartley, 27. Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Father: Charles Hartley, admitted to Connecticut State Psychiatric last night, suicide attempt, currently ICU. Hartley family had seasonal presence in Hamptons during early 2000s. Photographic evidence by 9 AM.
Additional: Emma Hartley is junior analyst, Investment Department, Zenith Capital. Started 14 months ago. Isabelle inquiry in progress. —D.C.*
She worked for me. Had been working in my building for over a year.
Hartley family. Hamptons. Early 2000s. Not confirmed yet. But close.
I looked back at Emma. Her father had tried to kill himself. She was drowning in debt. I couldn't tell her. Not until I had the photographs. So when she woke, I'd be the CEO. Cold, controlled. I'd send her away and figure out the rest later.
Emma
When I woke, pale light filtered through windows. I was alone.
6:47 AM. Reality crashed back—Dad in the ICU, twenty-two thousand dollars by 8 PM tonight. Less than fourteen hours.
I dressed quickly, hands shaking. When I came out, Sebastian stood by the windows, backlit by the rising sun. He'd changed into a fresh suit—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored. His dark hair was still damp, combed back from his face. Even from across the room, he radiated the kind of control that came from never having to worry about money. Never having to choose between your father's life and financial ruin.
He had his phone pressed to his ear, voice low but sharp.
"—I don't care. I need everything by nine AM. All the photographs." A pause.
He ended the call and turned. His eyes met mine—ice blue, unreadable.
"I called you a car," he said flatly. "It's waiting."
"Thank you." I grabbed my coat, my mind already racing. Shower, change, get to the office. Maybe Claire would know of some emergency loan option. Twenty-two thousand dollars. Eight PM—
"Wait." His voice cut through my spiral.
He crossed to a side table and pulled something from a drawer. "You left this."
My pearl earring. One of Mom's studs.
I took it, our fingers brushing. "Thank you."
"Your father," he said. "The hospital. Did you get the money you needed?"
"Not yet. I have until tonight."
He nodded once. "The car will take you wherever you need to go." A dismissal, clear and final. But I barely registered it—my mind was already back on the deadline, the impossible amount, the fourteen hours I had left.
I left without another word.
The black sedan dropped me at Rachel's forty minutes later. I climbed the three flights on autopilot, still wearing last night's clothes.
Rachel handed me coffee without a word.
"Who was he?"
"Just someone." I couldn't think about that now. "I need to shower and get to work."
"Are you okay?"
"I need to figure out how to get twenty-two thousand dollars by eight PM or they're stopping Dad's treatment." My voice cracked on the last word.
"Fuck." Rachel set down her mug. "What about—"
"I've tried everything." I rubbed my face. "Maybe Claire will have an idea."
I showered quickly, borrowed a clean blouse, and headed for the subway. The morning commute was packed but I barely noticed, running through calculations that never added up.
Zenith Capital's glass tower loomed ahead when I emerged at Wall Street. My hands were shaking as I swiped my badge and took the elevator up.
My desk was exactly as I'd left it. I logged in, already composing an email to Claire.
An email was waiting.
Meeting with S. Pierce at noon. His office, 30th floor. —David Chen, Executive Assistant to the CEO
S. Pierce. Sebastian Pierce. The CEO.
I pulled up the company directory. There he was. The photo showed the same sharp jaw, the same ice-blue eyes that had looked down at me in the dark.
My boss. I'd slept with my boss.
My phone buzzed.
Good morning, Ms. Hartley. Don't be late. —S.P.
He'd known who I was from the moment I told him my name. He'd given me only his first name in return.
And now he wanted to see me in his office.
But I couldn't think about that now. I had less than fourteen hours to find twenty-two thousand dollars or my father would die. Everything else—Sebastian Pierce, last night, whatever that meeting was about—would have to wait.
