Hate Me Closer

Chapter 16: Expansion

Chapter 16: Expansion

The new office smelled like paint and possibility.

Aria stood in the middle of the empty SoHo loft — exposed brick, fourteen-foot ceilings, windows facing the Hudson — and tried to feel the triumph she knew she should feel. Six months ago she’d been working out of a walk-up. Now she had a waiting list, a team of nine, and a lease on twelve hundred square feet of prime Manhattan real estate.

“You’re making a face,” Jess said, appearing with two coffees.

“I’m making a thinking face.”

“Your thinking face looks like your worried face’s cousin.” Jess handed her a coffee. “Talk to me.”

“It’s Marsh. We lost the Ashfords, and now the Whitmore gala committee is ‘reconsidering.’ If she keeps poaching at thirty percent under, the waiting list evaporates, and I’m paying rent on—” Aria gestured at the empty loft. “—all this possibility.”

“So we fight smarter.” Jess’s jaw set in a way Aria recognized — it was the same look Jess had worn the day she’d cried over a headline and then gone back to work. “We’ve got something she doesn’t.”

“What’s that?”

“You. The woman who built Beautiful Ruin out of an actual scandal.” Jess grinned. “Nobody hires Vivienne Marsh for a story. They hire her for centerpieces.”

Before Aria could answer, her phone rang. Margot. “You’re going to want to take this in private,” Margot said. “Elliot Vance’s people just called. The Elliot Vance. Fintech billionaire, thirty-four, engaged to a Brazilian supermodel. They want us for the wedding. Three hundred guests, Lake Como, budget — are you sitting down? — four million dollars.”

Aria sat down. On the floor. In the middle of the empty loft.

“Four million,” she repeated.

“Four million. They saw the anniversary gala photos. They want ‘that exact feeling.’ Aria, this is the wedding. The one that puts us on the map permanently.”

“When?”

“September. Which means we’d be planning it alongside your own wedding, the arts wing opening, and a price war.” A beat. “I told them we’d call back tomorrow. Say the word and I’ll start the contract.”

Aria looked at Jess, who was openly eavesdropping, eyes huge.

“Say yes,” Jess mouthed.

“Tell them yes,” Aria said. “And Margot — triple-check the payment terms. I don’t want any surprises.”

“Already on it.”

She hung up and let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding for weeks. “Four million dollars, Jess. Lake Como.”

“I know! I’m going to throw up!” Jess paused. “In a good way.”

---

That night, dinner with Nadia — wine, pasta, and intel, as promised.

“Okay, venue first,” Nadia said, pulling up photos on her phone. “Cold Spring estate. Stone manor, walled garden, a terrace overlooking the Hudson for the ceremony. It’s perfect, it’s available the last Saturday in June, and I already put down a refundable hold because I knew you’d dither.”

“You put down a hold on my wedding venue?”

“Someone had to.” Nadia swiped to the next photo — a sweeping lawn at golden hour. “Look at this light, Aria. You’re getting married in that light.”

Aria felt her throat tighten. “It’s perfect.”

“I know. Now the gossip.” Nadia set down her phone, and her expression shifted — the playfulness draining out of it. “I dug into Marsh & Sterling’s funding. It’s layered — Caymans, Delaware, the works. But I found a thread.”

“Tell me.”

“One of the shell companies — Halcyon Crest Ltd. — received a wire transfer in December from a trust. A very old trust, set up in 1998.” Nadia met her eyes. “The Vale Family Trust.”

Aria went very still. “Reginald’s trust.”

“Administered by lawyers, still active. And here’s the thing — the trust made three disbursements in the last six months. One to Halcyon Crest. One to a London account I haven’t cracked yet. And one to—” Nadia stopped.

“To who?”

“To a name I don’t recognize. A young man. Twenty-eight years old.” Nadia slid a printed photograph across the table.

The photo showed a man on a London street, laughing, gray eyes unmistakable even in black and white. He had Dorian’s jaw. Dorian’s cheekbones. A stranger’s smile.

“Who is he?” Aria whispered.

“According to the trust documents, his name is Caleb Vale.” Nadia’s voice was quiet. “And according to the memo line on the disbursement — he’s Reginald Vale’s son.”

The restaurant noise faded to a hum. Aria stared at the photograph.

“The boy,” she said.

“What?”

“Dorian’s letter. ‘Including the boy. Especially the boy.’” She looked up at Nadia. “Reginald had a son. A secret son. And he’s been getting trust money for months.”

“There’s more.” Nadia turned the photo over. On the back, in her neat handwriting: “Flight booked — JFK, Thursday.”

“He’s coming here,” Aria said.

“He’s coming here,” Nadia agreed. “And Aria? The London account — the second disbursement? I traced the IP activity. Someone’s been searching your firm’s website. Your portfolio. Your client list.”

A chill ran down Aria’s spine. “Me specifically?”

She repeated, then shook her head. “You specifically.” Nadia reached across the table and took her hand. “Whatever this is, it’s not a coincidence. The money, the timing, Vivienne Marsh — it’s all connected. And it’s all pointed at you.”

Aria looked down at the photograph — at the stranger with Dorian’s eyes — and thought about the envelope on the mantel, and the letter’s last line: He’ll come when the time is right.

Thursday. Two days away.

The time, apparently, was right.

Aria folded the photograph and slid it into her bag, her fingers steady even though her heart wasn’t. Two days. In two days, Reginald Vale’s secret son would walk into their lives, and she intended to be ready — the way she’d once prepared for galas, for boardrooms, for war. She’d spent a year learning peace. Now she’d have to remember everything she’d ever known about fighting.