The billionaire's most dangerous obsession

The man waiting in Mara Ellison's apartment had no business knowing her name. She stood in the doorway, keys still in her hand, staring at him. He was sitting at her kitchen table, wearing a dark suit that probably cost more than everything in her apartment combined. Her unopened mail lay beside his elbow. Her mother's old photograph was in his hand. “Put that down,” Mara said. He looked at the photograph, then at her. “You look like her.” Mara's grip tightened around her keys. “Who are you?” “Adrian Vale.” She knew the name. Everyone in New York knew the name. Hotels, private jets, magazine covers. The kind of man who could buy an entire building and complain about the view. None of that explained why he was sitting in her apartment. “Get out.” “I need to talk to you.” “Then you should have tried the front door like a normal person.” “I did. You weren't home.” “So you broke in?” “I had someone open the lock.” “That is not better.” For the first time, his expression shifted. He looked almost embarrassed, though Mara doubted a man like Adrian Vale spent much time feeling that way. He put the photograph on the table. “Did your mother ever mention Eleanor Vale?” Mara went still. Her mother's name had not appeared in a conversation with a stranger in years. She had been dead since Mara was thirteen. There were boxes of old papers in a cupboard, a few photographs, and memories Mara rarely discussed. “Why are you asking me that?” “Because Eleanor left something behind. Something that belongs to your family.” “My family doesn't have anything to do with yours.” “That's what I thought.” He reached into his jacket and placed a folded document on the table. Mara didn't touch it. “What is it?” “A copy of a will.” “And you came all the way here to show me a piece of paper?” “No.” Adrian looked directly at her. “I came because the lawyer who found the original disappeared this afternoon. Before he vanished, he told me one thing.” Mara waited. “He said you were next.” For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Mara's phone rang. An unknown number. She answered without taking her eyes off Adrian. “Hello?” A man's voice came through, low and hurried. “Mara? Listen carefully. Don't trust Adrian Vale.” Her stomach tightened. “Who is this?” “You need to leave your apartment. Now.” The call ended. Mara stared at the screen. When she looked up, Adrian was already standing. “What did he say?” She slipped the phone into her pocket. “Nothing.” His expression hardened. “Don't lie to me.” “Don't give me orders in my own home.” He stepped closer, then stopped when he saw her face. For the first time, the distance between them felt less like a threat, and more like a question, neither of them knew how to answer. “I'm trying to keep you alive,” he said. “You don't even know me.” Adrian looked at the photograph on the table. “That's the problem.” A loud knock came from the apartment door. Three sharp hits. Mara turned toward it. Adrian caught her wrist—not hard, but firmly enough to stop her from reaching for the handle. “Don't open it.” She looked down at his hand. “Let go.” He did immediately. That frightened her more than if he had argued. Another knock. Then, a voice from the hallway. “Miss Ellison? Police. We need to speak with you about a murder.” Mara's face was drained of color. Adrian looked at her. “What murder?” The voice outside answered before she could. “Daniel Cross. He was found dead an hour ago. Your name was written on the note beside his body.” Mara couldn't breathe. Daniel was the lawyer who had called her that morning. The lawyer who had promised to show her the original will. The lawyer who had warned her that someone was coming for her. She turned to Adrian. He was staring at the door, his jaw tight. “You knew,” she whispered. “No.” “Then why are you here?” He looked at her, and something in his expression made her wish he would simply lie. “Because six months ago,” he said, “my grandmother left me a letter.” Mara waited. Adrian's voice dropped. “It said that if a woman named Mara Ellison ever came looking for her inheritance, I was to marry her before anyone else found out who she really was.” The knocking came again. Mara stared at him. “Marry me?” “I never said I agreed to it.” “Then what do you want from me?” For the first time since she had entered the apartment, Adrian looked uncertain. “That's what I've been trying to figure out.” Outside, the police called her name again. On the kitchen table, beneath the photograph of Mara's dead mother, the corner of the folded will begin to curl in the heat from the lamp. One line was visible at the bottom of the page. To my granddaughter, Mara Ellison, I leave everything.