I always know how to make an entrance, but tonight is different. This art auction at Delacroix Manor is more than just an event-it’s a game, and I’m here to win. The Manor, located in Loire Valley, aka ‘Garden of France,’ where only the wealthiest and most posh snobs throw parties.

The room is awash with glittering lights, and the soft hum of whispered conversations mixes with the clink of champagne glasses. Every power player on this side of the ocean is present. The 1% rich and famous, draped in their designer finery, diamonds, and custom-made tuxedos, move through the ballroom like a sea of polished statues. Those truly born in the ‘old money’ have a certain way about them. How they move, how they hold themselves, how they breathe...

But I’m not here for the idle chatter or the overpriced hors d’oeuvres. I’m here for something much more interesting: the art.

Maximillian Blackwell’s private gallery holds something rare, something I can leverage. Rumor has it that one of his paintings is worth tens of millions, but it is locked away behind a secure door in a room that no one but the most trusted has access to. I know how to get in. I have my ways. And once I’m in, the game will be mine.

But then I see him.

My pulse stutters for a fraction of a second. I wasn’t looking for him, but I feel him before I see him. He’s there, his cold, steel-blue eyes scanning the crowd like a predator. Jackson. My father.

I can’t help the way my heart reacts. It has been months since I last saw him-since he started this never-ending chase to drag me back into his world. A place where I have no purpose. A world where my only role is to obey.

His blue eyes lock onto mine across the crowded room. That sharp, calculating gaze-those eyes that know me better than anyone. It’s like being caught in the crosshairs of a gun. But I’m not afraid anymore. Not of him.

I give him a brief, almost casual smile as if it doesn’t matter that he has been hunting me for so long. Then, I turn away, disappearing into the crowd. I want to let him think I’m running. Let him think I’m scared.

I’m not.

I slip through the throngs of wealthy and famous people, my black stilettos clicking sharply on the polished gray marble floor, weaving past them with practiced ease. But I know he’s there, his steel eyes never leaving me. I can feel his gaze like a weight, like a shadow pressing against my skin.

The back doors of the Manor come into view. I know this part well-Blackwell’s private gallery. The security is tight, but nothing I can’t handle. The thrill of it makes my blood hum, like electricity buzzing through my veins. I’m good at this-at staying one step ahead of him. And tonight, I will be no different.

I open the door slowly, careful to make no sound, and step inside. The room is darker than the rest of the mansion, lit only by the soft glow of moonlight streaming through tall windows. The paintings, each one more exquisite than the last, hang around me like silent sentinels, watching my every move.

I can’t resist but take a moment to admire the painting I came for-a painting so valuable and coveted that it can change everything.

A copper-haired archangel, at least 3 meters tall, painted with surgical precision. His glowing skin looks almost fluorescent against the gray, stormy skies behind him. He’s draped in a scarlet tapestry that sensually hides his private parts, and his eyes are painted red to depict the divine fury threatening to strike (me) from above.

He holds a flaming sword in his right hand and a thunderbolt in his left. The golden halo around his copper locks looks like a barbed wire, and his muscles are tense, every last one. He truly is majestic, and somehow, it is fitting-he does seem like he’s about to strike me down with his divinity...

Although I have no intention of taking it with me-at least not yet-I need leverage. Leverage that will keep me free. Free from him.

Then, I hear it. The faint click of footsteps in the hall, just outside the door. He has found me.

My heart doesn’t race-if anything, it steadies, calm and cold, like I have been expecting this moment. I turn, my back straight, and cross the room toward the far wall, where I know the security wire is hidden. I don’t even have to look to find it-my fingers know the way, brushing over the cool stone until I find the small, nearly invisible switch.

The door behind me unlocks with a soft tug and a faint click. My escape is secure.

I stand still for a moment, feeling the light breeze across my naked skin as I wait for the inevitable. And it comes.

“Leighton.”

I hate the way he says my name. So cold. So sure of himself. He’s always like this, so certain that I’ll come crawling back. That I will fall in line. I don’t look at the door. I don’t need to. I know what’s coming next.

I let the silence stretch between us for a few seconds before I speak. “I must admit, Jackson, I didn’t think you’d catch up to me so quickly.”

The words come out easily, as if I were talking to a stranger. But the truth is, everything about this feels different. His presence fills the room, and his authority radiates through the room. It makes the space feel small, closing in on me as if it were just the two of us, a father and a daughter, facing off once again.

“You can’t keep running forever, Leighton,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, familiar growl. “You think you can outsmart me? You’re wrong.”

I smirk, my fingers grazing the edge of a painting nearby. It isn’t the one I came for, but it is a good one. They all are. His words are just noise-empty threats. I know what he wants. He wants me back. He wants control.

“I’m not running,” I reply, turning slowly to face him. “I’m just playing the game. The same game you’ve always played. The one you taught me to be the best at.”

I take a few intentional and slow steps forward, enjoying the way his eyes follow me, the intensity of his blue gaze never leaving mine. I’m in control now.

“But you’ve forgotten something,” I continue, my voice dripping with sweet venom. “I’m better at it than you.”

His jaw clenches at that, the anger barely contained. It is almost amusing how much he hates being outmaneuvered by me. But I’m not done yet. I lean in closer, just enough to close the gap between us, but not too close to let him grab me.

“You’ve always underestimated me, Jackson. You think you know me. But you don’t.”

His eyes harden and turn from spring blue to steel blue. His jaw clenches like stone as he takes a step toward me. His hand shoots out fast as lightning, but I’m already moving. I dance just out of his reach, feeling the rush of adrenaline spike through my blood.

“You think you have me cornered,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper as I circle him. “But I’ve always been two steps ahead.”

Jackson’s breath quickens, but he doesn’t falter. “You’re my daughter, Leighton. I know you better than anyone.”

I smile, but there is no warmth in it. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t know me. Not anymore.” I can feel the tension building between us, thick enough to choke on. He’s close, too close, but not close enough.

I’m not running this time. I’m not hiding. I’m standing my ground.

“You think you can keep running forever?” His voice cracks, just for a second, and in that moment, the weight of his desperation shows through. But I don’t soften. I never do. Not with him.

“No,” I say, my voice low and steady. “I’m done running.” Then, with a single, calculated move, I pull the lever hidden in the wall. A soft hiss fills the room as the hidden door opens wider.

But before I can move, his hand shoots out and catches my wrist. His grip is strong and unyielding, like an iron shackle around my petite wrist.

I look at him, really look at him. There is something in his eyes-something I haven’t seen in years. Something like regret. Or maybe it is just a deeper anger. “Not so fast,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my sweaty skin.

I stand there for a long moment, my chest tight with the fight that is about to come.

“I told you, Jackson,” I say, voice steady. “You’ve finally got me… exactly where you always wanted me.” And, in that moment, I feel both invincible and powerless at the same time. The silence between us thickens, the hum of tension palpable in the air.

I know my father better than anyone. His mind is like a steel trap, honed over years of taking down the most dangerous criminals in the world. Interpol has trained him to be relentless, to see every angle, to predict every move. He has put away the likes of diamond thieves, international smugglers, and art heists worth millions. He’s good-too good.

He taught me to think like him and to stay one step ahead, but he never counted on me using it against him. And tonight? Tonight, I’m playing my own game. Our eyes are locked in a check-mate gaze.

Suddenly, the cold metal of his steel cuffs bite into my wrists, the sharp edges pressing against my soft skin. He cuffs me behind my back. I have to admit, the situation is dangerous. I’m surrounded by priceless art almost within my reach. But there is more at stake here than just the paintings. There is my freedom. There is Jackson, relentless, demanding that I surrender-not just the art, but myself.

My father steps closer, his steel-blue eyes narrowed, analyzing me as if I were just another criminal he has to interrogate. But I’m not just a criminal. I’m his daughter, and he isn’t ready for what that means.