The estate lay deep in the Vermont woods, hidden behind a mile of unmarked road and two layers of armed security. Bekett called it "a retreat." Geraldine now knew it was a blood-soaked theater where monsters made deals.
She and Lachlan arrived separately.
He handed her a keycard, a pass, and a name to use: Eva Dane—a ghost identity tied to a dead heiress in Brazil. "Your name doesn't exist in this world," he said. "Not tonight."
Geraldine wore black satin—dangerous, low-cut, elegant. Her hair was up, pinned by silver, and she carried nothing but a fake smile and a stolen resolve.
As they passed through the gates, Lachlan whispered, "Whatever you see tonight, do not react."
She didn't respond. Her heart was already sprinting ahead of her.
Inside the estate, crystal chandeliers sparkled like lies. Men in tuxedos. Women in barely-there gowns. Servers with no names. Every laugh was hollow. Every touch carried intention.
Geraldine stuck close to Lachlan. He didn't hover—just offered proximity, cover. Her role was to be the mysterious mistress. His prop. His shadow.
But her eyes never stopped scanning.
Bekett was there.
She spotted him near the marble stairs, surrounded by two men with shark eyes. He didn't see her—not as Eva Dane. Not yet.
Lachlan leaned in. "We get in. We get the list. We leave. Clean."
"What list?"
"The buyers. The ones funding him. Once we know their names, we hit where it hurts—money."
A sharp chime cut through the hall.
It was time.
The auction took place in the lower level—a hidden room with velvet seats and silence thick enough to choke on. Screens lit up the front. No gavel. No auctioneer. Just codes, figures, images.
Lots were presented anonymously.
Weapons.
Artifacts.
Women.
Geraldine's stomach turned, but her face remained stone. Eva Dane didn't blink.
Lachlan whispered names into her ear, identifying powerful men as if reading a hit list. "Senator Vale. Russian arms broker. Colombian bank lord. That's Bekett's world. And yours."
"No," she hissed. "Not mine."
"Not yet," he corrected.
Then came Lot 19.
She froze.
It was a photo. A girl. Twelve. Described as "clean lineage." Auction starting bid—$150,000.
Geraldine stood.
Lachlan grabbed her wrist, tight. "Sit. Down."
Her hands shook. Her lungs burned. "This is hell."
"This is Bekett's kingdom," he murmured. "Now you understand why I want it burned to ash."
Tears threatened, but Geraldine swallowed them whole. Her nails dug into her palm until blood whispered across her skin.
She would remember that girl's face forever.
When the auction ended, they slipped away. Lachlan handed her a small device—a tiny black USB no larger than a nail.
"It's the list," he said. "I stole it when they ran the blackout screen. Cameras went blind for thirty seconds. Just long enough."
She clutched it like a lifeline.
But just as they reached the exit, a voice rang out.
"Lachlan."
Bekett.
Geraldine didn't turn.
Lachlan did.
"Didn't think I'd see you here," Bekett said, calm, dangerous.
Lachlan smiled. "You know me. I like expensive things."
Bekett's gaze shifted to Geraldine—but he didn't recognize her.
"Who's the woman?" he asked, sharp.
"None of your business," Lachlan replied.
Bekett chuckled. "Everything here is my business."
Geraldine finally turned.
And stared Bekett in the eye.
His jaw twitched.
Just a flicker.
Recognition didn't bloom—but suspicion did.
She smiled coldly.
"Nice to meet you," she said, voice dripping elegance.
Bekett stepped closer. Too close. He sniffed once, like a predator.
Then leaned back. "She smells like war."
Lachlan's grip on her waist tightened. "Then maybe you should run."
They left before Bekett could follow.
But Geraldine knew something had shifted.
He hadn't seen her face.
But he had felt her presence.
Back at the hotel, she stripped out of the dress like it was poisoned. Showered twice. Scrubbed until her skin was raw.
Lachlan waited outside, pouring scotch.
"You did good."
She stepped out, wrapped in a towel. "I watched a child get sold."
He looked away. "You watched the truth."
Geraldine stared at the USB on the nightstand. "This changes everything."
"It changes you."
She picked it up. "Now what?"
"Now," Lachlan said, eyes darkening, "we leak the names."
Geraldine nodded slowly. "And then we burn him."
Lachlan raised his glass. "To the beginning of the end."
But Geraldine didn't toast.
She walked to the window, stared out into the moonlight, and whispered:
"No… to the beginning of me."