Page 153 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

They were kind about it, mostly. Competitive, because we were interns. Interns up for the same two positions. Nadia from Tax congratulated me in the kitchen and then asked, very casually, whether Helena had mentioned anything about full-time offers. Evan clapped my shoulder and said, “Auction girl,” like it was a compliment, then spent the rest of the day looking as if he had swallowed a stapler.

I understood.

If one of them had suddenly been included in client meetings, I would have smiled and then gone to the bathroom to throw up and calculate my own odds of dying a slow professional death.

We were all trying to build careers in a city that kept raising the price of simply standing still.

So I accepted the small wins carefully. I did the work. I answered the questions. I fetched the coffee without complaint. And through it all, I tried not to think about Rafe.

Obviously, I failed spectacularly on that last point.

Rafe appeared everywhere he had no right to be. In my inbox, in perfectly composed messages about exhibit language and the demand timeline. In my apartment, where his coat still hung over my blue chair because I hadn’t figured out the emotionally safe way to return it. In my memory, above Manhattan, his black-scaled body moved through the sky with impossible grace, and after his hands moved over my arms with heat held carefully back from fire.

He was hot.

Literally.

Figuratively.

In every way possible.

I had a plan for my life. It involved working my ass off, paying down debt, earning my place without anyone deciding I had been carried there by a dragon with excellent shoulders, and providing Max with the kind of retirement package usually reserved for senators and minor European royals. It didn’t involve getting attached to a man who thought love was something you built your life around.

Two weeks into the Arkley Museum stall-out, Helena called the team into conference room four. Rafe attended by video from his office, appearing on the wall screen in a dark suit and an expression that made everyone sit straighter.

Moira sat beside me with her laptop open. Cressler paced near the window, tie loosened. Helena Wallace stood at the head of the table with the latest non-response packet in front of her.

“We have given Arkley every reasonable opportunity to engage,” Helena said. “They have declined.”

“Declined is generous,” Cressler muttered. “They’ve turned avoidance into an art form.”

Helena looked at him gravely.

He sat down.

“They continue to hold the reliquary comb,” she said. “Our provenance materials are strong. We have evidence of improper acquisition, failure to investigate restitution claims, and refusal to respond to formal demand. At this stage, I recommend filing.”

Rafe’s image on the screen didn’t change, but his attention sharpened. “Litigation?”

“To force contact,” Helena said. “Ideally, the complaint brings them to the table before we spend the next year in discovery. We file, serve, and give them an opportunity to resolve before this becomes more expensive for everyone.”

“That assumes they can be served,” Moira said.

Helena’s mouth tightened.

Ah.

There it was. The problem beneath the problem.

Over the next ten minutes, the team laid it out. The owners of the museum, a married pair of reclusive Olden Folk collectors with more money than community goodwill, were currently on a long expedition cruise somewhere near Antarctica. Their registered address led to a management company that insisted it had no authority to accept service. The museum itself had no clean registered office for service in the jurisdiction we needed. And the director was always conveniently missing whenever we tried to speak with him.

“He’s a wolf shifter,” Moira said, pulling up his profile. “Hobbyist endurance racer. Road and trail races, obstacle events. If he knows someone is coming, he moves.”

“He can’t outrun the court indefinitely,” Rafe said.

“No,” Helena said. “But he can delay us long enough to significantly delay our timeline.”

Cressler rubbed a hand over his face. “He’s ignored three formal letters, two meeting requests, and every call routed through the museum office. His assistant has started saying he’s ‘between obligations,’ which appears to mean running away from anything with letterhead.”