Tori’s parting shot lodges under my ribs and stays there. She’s not wrong. Everyone in a three-mile radius knows I detonated the thing I wanted most, and now I’m trying to glue the shrapnel back into a shape without knowing how.
Sitting here and waiting for the situation to resolve itself won’t help, so I head straight to IT.
“I need you to pull the last activity off Beatrice Wrong’s account. Doesn’t matter if it was from her work computer or her phone’s browser,” I say, not bothering with a hello. The kid at the desk startles like I shook him awake from a nap.
“You want… what specifically?”
“Browser history from the past twelve hours. Screenshots if you’ve got them. Any travel sites, confirmations, whatever you can legally get me without sending us both to federal prison.”
He blinks twice, hands already moving over his keyboard. “I mean, the wordlegallyis doing a lot of heavy lifting here, but… yeah. I can do that. It’s been sort of boring today anyway.”
Eight minutes later, I’m staring at a mirrored session of her last clicks. CheapFlights. A one-way ticket to Bora Bora. There’s a confirmation screen. My heart stops, then sprints. She’s already on that flight, probably somewhere above the Pacific Ocean, putting miles between us.
“Send this to me,” I bark, and then soften my voice because that’s what Bea would want. “Please.”
The kid blinks a couple more times and nods.
Back in my office, I throw clothes from the spare cabinet I have stashed—looks like I’ll be traveling to Bora Bora in suits—into my duffel bag.
I put the Chanel back in the dust bag and carefully place it into the duffel bag too and head to Maeve’s floor, hoping she’s in the studio. If she’s not, I’ll have to steal the Executive. Either way will work.
Maeve is on a rolling stool with pins in her mouth when I barge into the studio. She clocks me in one glance—a duffel bag and face full of panic—and yanks the pins free.
“You look like the before photo of a man about to have a makeover and move to a small town,” she says, standing.
“I’m going after her.”
Her expression flickers through alarm, satisfaction, and fond exasperation in about half a second. “I’d be surprised if you weren’t. You bringing a carry-on full of guilt?” She nods at the bag in my hands.
I open the duffel and show her the Chanel peeking through the suits. “Her grandmother’s. I got it back.”
Maeve’s gaze snaps to the dust bag. “You did?”
“It’s hers. I—” My voice thins embarrassingly, so I clear it. “I should’ve stopped her from having to do it in the first place.”
She stares at me for a beat before she reaches under one of the garment bags by her side and unzips it with unnecessary drama. The jacket—the Executive—slides into view, with that impossible shade that makes people go quiet and listen.
“I think you’re here for this?”
“I’ll buy it.”
She shakes her head. “It has always been hers.”
I run my thumb over the stitching. “She’ll yell at me about rule one.”
“She made you rules?” Maeve laughs, shoving the hanger into my hands. “Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“If you screw this up, I’ll design a collection called King Loser and show it in Times Square.” Her eyes narrow. “And I’ll make sure everyone knows about the inspiration behind it.”
“Deal.” I nod.
“And when you find her, don’t do the whole ‘I need you’ speech. She needs to hear ‘I see you.’ Say sorry like it’s a sentence, not a preamble.”
I nod again. I’ve already started a list in my head that is only apologies.
“And one more thing,” Maeve says. “Our parents called me this morning.”
