Page 9 of His Vow

There it was, added three weeks back as strategy evolved — a gallery-site photo, loose curls, wide dark eyes, barefoot, in front of a painting.

Soleil Lattimore.

Beneath the photograph, two words, typed into the notes with the ruthless clarity of a man who long ago severed sentiment from strategy:

Access point.

I looked at the photograph and looked at the other phone, where the sun emoji still glowed.

This was the secret that I'd never told anyone:

I'm going to destroy her father, dismantle his company, ruin his name, and burn the empire the Lattimores built on the silence of people they crushed — including my sister.

I'd spent fifteen years becoming a man who could do it. Every acquisition, every connection, every move I'd made since I was twenty-two had been building toward this.

And the girl with the bare feet and the sun emoji?

She's how I get inside.

THREE

SOLEIL

The maître d' smiled when I walked in. "Ms. Lattimore. Mr. Hugh is already seated."

Of course he was. My father had never been late to anything in his life.

I spotted him in our usual booth by the window — silver hair combed back, navy suit pressed sharp, black coffee untouched because he always waited for me before the first sip.

He looked up. The phone disappeared. He stood, buttoned his jacket, and kissed my forehead.

"There's my girl."

"Hi, Daddy." I slid into the booth. The sparkling water with lemon was already there. Every Friday since I was eighteen. I canceled plans for these. He rearranged board meetings. It was sacred.

"Last night," he said, picking up his coffee. "Tell me everything."

"Four pieces sold. Rafael cried when the young couple bought the Pinheiros streetscape. And Margaux nearly fainted during a pricing negotiation with Eleanor Voss."

His eyebrows rose over the rim of his cup. "Eleanor came?"

"Three pieces, Daddy. She bought three."

"Well." He set the cup down, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "She has good taste."

I tilted my head. "You wouldn't happen to know how Eleanor heard about the gallery?"

"I ran into her at the Harrington benefit. Mentioned my daughter's gallery to a woman who collects art." He shrugged. "She made her own decision." He looked at me over his coffee, fond. “I open a door now and then. You're the one who has to walk through it.

"Daddy."

"I pointed. She walked. That's all."

I shook my head but couldn't stop the grin. I believed him. Of course I did. He'd always said he only nudged. A word here. A name there. Nothing that would make it his instead of mine. The thought moved through me like a shadow across a window — the gallery, the lease, the terms, Eleanor Voss walking through my door — and then the shadow passed, and the grin stayed.

"Have you heard from your brother?" he asked.

The grin faded. "I called after the show. Two texts. He sent back a thumbs-up."