Chapter 13 - The Soho Bait
Three days later, the atmosphere in Manhattan was charged with the frenetic, glittering energy of the autumn art season.
In a sprawling, multi-million-dollar gallery space in Soho, high society had gathered for the most exclusive underground auction of the year—an event hosted by none other than Alexander Sterling as a front to launder fifty million dollars in illicit arms revenue through high-end contemporary art purchases.
The gallery was a masterpiece of minimalist luxury: polished white concrete floors, towering white walls displaying abstract canvases, and waiters floating through the crowd with trays of crystal champagne flutes.
Near the center of the room stood Alexander Sterling. He was an older man with silver hair styled impeccably, wearing a bespoke Savile Row tuxedo, sipping champagne with a self-satisfied smirk. His cyber teams had reported that the New Hampshire cabin had been destroyed in a massive fire, and with his tracking teams dark, he was convinced Julian Montgomery and his runaway wife had perished in the mountain inferno.
Then, the heavy glass entrance doors of the gallery parted.
The conversation in the room didn't just quiet down; it completely evaporated.
Walking into the center of Alexander Sterling’s fortress was Clara Vance Montgomery.
She wasn't wearing one of the restrictive, heavy designer gowns Julian used to buy for her. She wore a striking, backless emerald-green silk dress of her own design—a garment that clung to her athletic frame and moved with liquid grace. Her dark hair was styled in sleek, cascading waves, and around her neck wore not Julian’s diamonds, but her grandmother’s simple silver locket.
She looked radiant. She looked lethal. She looked like a queen who had conquered her own kingdom.
And walking half a step behind her—not blocking her, not guarding her like a fragile possession, but presenting her to the world with undeniable, terrifying pride—was Julian Montgomery. He wore a sharp black tuxedo, his jaw set in stone, his dark eyes sweeping the room with the casual, absolute authority of an apex predator walking into a cage of sheep.
The champagne glass slipped from Alexander Sterling’s hand, shattering against the polished concrete floor with a sharp clink.
Clara didn't flinch at the sound. She walked directly across the gallery floor, the sea of wealthy patrons parting before her in stunned silence, until she was standing three feet away from the syndicate leader.
"Good evening, Alexander," Clara said, her voice carrying a rich, melodic confidence that echoed off the high white walls. She picked up a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, raising it toward him in a mock toast. "I hear you've been looking for me in Maine. You really should have just sent an invitation to the gallery."
Sterling’s face turned mottled purple. His eyes darted frantically toward the exits, where his plainclothes security operatives were instinctively reaching into their tailored jackets for their weapons.
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"How are you alive?" Sterling hissed, dropping his aristocratic veneer as pure panic seeped into his voice. "The cabin—my men—"
"Your men are currently part of the geology of New Hampshire," Julian interrupted, stepping up beside Clara. His voice was low, smooth, and vibrating with an icy menace that made Sterling step backward. "And your financial accounts in Zurich, London, and the Caymans were systematically seized by my cyber teams forty-five minutes ago using the routing data we pulled from Lucas Thorne's phone."
