Chapter 1 - The Man Who Answered
Claire Bennett gripped the back of a gold chair and whispered, "Please tell me this is some kind of joke."
A tall man in a black overcoat walked through the ballroom doors and noticed the rose-gold phone in her hand.
One number glowed on the screen.
He stopped.
This was not a wrong number.
At four o'clock that afternoon, Claire had still been pretending she wasn't disappointed.
By four-ten, pretending had become exhausting.
She had reserved a private room at Bellamy House for her thirty-seventh birthday because her younger sister, Jenna, had spent months insisting that Claire needed to stop treating birthdays like ordinary Tuesdays.
"You survived another year," Jenna had said. "That deserves cake."
Claire had laughed.
Then she'd done something she almost never did.
She invited people.
Coworkers from the interior design firm where she managed client accounts. Two women from her old apartment building. A college friend she had recently reconnected with. Three cousins who lived less than an hour away. Even Martin, her former boyfriend, because after two years apart they had somehow become the kind of exes who could exchange Christmas cards without wanting to throw anything.
Twenty invitations.
Twenty place settings.
Twenty tiny candles lined around a white cake Jenna had ordered.
At noon, the cancellations began.
Food poisoning.
Childcare emergency.
Work meeting.
Flat tire.
Migraine.
Wrong weekend.
At first Claire answered every message kindly.
No problem.
Feel better.
We'll catch up soon.
By three-thirty, seventeen people had canceled.
Jenna had called from the airport, crying with frustration because a mechanical problem had grounded her flight from Denver.
"I swear I'm trying," she said.
"You don't have to," Claire replied.
"It's your birthday."
"It's just Thursday."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like you don't care because caring would embarrass you."
Claire had stared at herself in the mirror.
She was wearing the red dress Jenna had mailed her three weeks earlier.
It was dramatic.
Too dramatic, Claire had thought.
A deep crimson gown with sheer sleeves and a fitted waist that made her curvy figure impossible to hide.
Claire's normal wardrobe consisted of dark trousers, soft sweaters, and clothing designed to help her disappear.
This dress did the opposite.
Jenna had sent a note with it.
Wear something that refuses to apologize for taking up space.
Claire had nearly returned it.
Instead, she wore it.
And now she was standing in a beautiful room surrounded by empty chairs.
"Claire?"
"I'm fine," she told Jenna.
"You don't sound fine."
"I've got cake."
"That's not a personality."
Claire laughed despite herself.
"Go deal with the airline."
"I'll call you in an hour."
After they hung up, Claire stared at her contact list.
There had been one other person she had considered inviting.
Her father.
Richard Bennett had been dead for nine years.
Claire still had his number saved.
She had never deleted it.
It was stupid.
She knew that.
The number had been disconnected long ago.
Once every year or so, when grief surprised her, she opened the contact and stared at his photograph.
Her father laughing beside an old blue pickup.
Her father holding a fishing pole.
Her father telling her she should never wait for someone else's permission to enjoy her own life.
He had been a complicated man.
A quiet accountant with a habit of checking every lock twice.
A father who taught her to change a tire before letting her drive.
A man who occasionally disappeared for unexplained business trips and never discussed his clients.
She had stopped asking questions when she was young.
After his death, the questions stopped mattering.
Or so she thought.
Claire opened the message thread.
The last text from her father was still there.
Proud of you. Always.
Her throat tightened.
Then she did something ridiculous.
She sent the digital birthday invitation to his old number.
Birthday dinner tonight. Bellamy House. 6:00. No gifts. Just come hungry.
She stared at the message.
Delivered.
Claire frowned.
That shouldn't have happened.
She waited.
Nothing.
She almost laughed.
"Happy birthday, Claire," she muttered.
Then she put her phone down.
Ten minutes later, it buzzed.
Unknown sender.
The reply contained five words.
Wear red. I'm coming.
Claire stared at it.
She looked down at herself.
Red.
A strange chill moved across her shoulders.
She typed:
Who is this?
No response.
At six-fifteen, two coworkers eventually arrived.
So did Martin, carrying a bottle of sparkling cider and an apologetic smile.
"I heard about the mass cancellation," he said.
"Apparently I inspire commitment."
"You inspire terror."
"That explains our relationship."
Martin laughed.
For twenty minutes, Claire almost forgot the message.
They cut cake.
They talked.
One coworker left early.
The other received a call from her babysitter.
By seven, Claire was once again standing near mostly empty chairs.
Then the front doors opened.
She noticed the room change before she noticed the man.
The waiter near the entrance straightened.
Two staff members looked toward each other.
Martin stopped mid-sentence.
A tall man stepped inside.
Black trousers.
Black waistcoat.
White shirt open at the collar.
Long black overcoat.
Dark wavy hair.
Beard.
A watch that probably cost more than Claire's car.
He wasn't conventionally polished.
There was something harder about him.
Something controlled.
A scar crossed the side of one hand.
Dark ink disappeared beneath his shirt collar.
Three men entered behind him but remained near the doorway.
Claire's instincts told her not to stare.
She stared anyway.
He looked directly at her.
Then at her red dress.
Then he smiled.
Not warmly.
Not cruelly.
Like something had just been confirmed.
Martin leaned toward her.
"Do you know him?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Very."
The stranger began walking across the room.
Toward her.
Each step was calm.
Unhurried.
Claire's fingers tightened around her phone.
He stopped approximately six feet away.
"Claire Bennett?"
Her stomach dropped.
"Who's asking?"
His eyes moved to her phone.
"Happy birthday."
Claire glanced toward Martin.
Martin's face had gone pale.
"Claire," he said quietly, "maybe we should leave."
The stranger looked at him.
Just looked.
Martin stopped talking.
Claire noticed.
That frightened her more than a threat would have.
"Who are you?" Claire asked.
"Adrian Vale."
The name meant nothing to her.
It clearly meant something to Martin.
Martin took half a step backward.
Adrian noticed that too.
Claire raised the phone.
"Did you send this?"
Adrian looked at the screen.
Wear red. I'm coming.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you invited me."
"I invited a dead phone number."
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
"You invited the person who owns it."
"That number belonged to my father."
"I know."
Claire stopped breathing for a moment.
Martin swore softly.
"What did you just say?"
Adrian glanced around the room.
"This isn't the best place."
"This is my birthday party."
"Then I suppose that makes it your decision."
"My decision about what?"
"Whether you want the truth tonight."
Claire laughed once.
It wasn't amusement.
"You're a stranger who walked into my birthday after answering my dead father's phone. I'm already having the truth tonight."
A hint of approval appeared in his eyes.
"Fair."
He reached inside his coat.
Martin immediately stepped forward.
Adrian's men moved.
Only slightly.
Enough.
Claire put up one hand.
"Everyone stop."
Adrian slowly removed an envelope.
Nothing else.
Cream paper.
Old.
The corner was bent.
He extended it to Claire.
Her name was written across the front.
Claire recognized the handwriting instantly.
Her father's.
She didn't take it.
"Where did you get that?"
"Richard gave it to someone twelve years ago."
"My father died nine years ago."
"I know."
"Who did he give it to?"
"My brother."
"Where's your brother?"
Adrian looked at the envelope.
"Dead."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Claire took the envelope.
Her fingers shook.
Martin reached toward her.
"Claire, maybe don't open that."
She looked at him.
There was something wrong with his voice.
Not concern.
Fear.
"You know him?" she asked.
"No."
Adrian's gaze shifted to Martin.
"You sure about that?"
Martin's face hardened.
"I've seen your picture."
"Where?"
"News."
Adrian almost smiled.
"Which news?"
Martin said nothing.
Claire looked between them.
"Somebody needs to explain what's happening."
Adrian removed his coat.
A waiter appeared almost instantly to take it.
Claire noticed the interaction.
No request.
No introduction.
The waiter simply knew.
"Sit down," Adrian said.
Claire bristled.
"That wasn't a request," he added, "but it also wasn't an order. You're going to want the chair."
"I don't appreciate mysterious men telling me what my legs are capable of."
This time he genuinely smiled.
"Your father said you'd be difficult."
Claire froze.
"What?"
"He also said you'd say exactly that sort of thing."
"You knew my father?"
"No."
"Then stop speaking as if you did."
"I knew what he left behind."
Claire looked at the envelope.
"Open it."
She did.
Inside was a birthday card.
A cheap one.
The front showed a cartoon cake with thirty-seven candles.
Claire's chest tightened.
Thirty-seven.
Her exact age.
Her father had prepared this before his death.
She opened it.
Inside, in Richard's handwriting:
Claire,
If you receive this on your thirty-seventh birthday, then someone kept a promise to me.
Don't panic.
Don't trust anyone who already knows Adrian Vale's name.
Ask Adrian about Saint Orion.
Then decide for yourself.
Love, Dad
Claire read the message twice.
Then a third time.
Her eyes moved slowly toward Martin.
He had recognized Adrian.
Martin noticed.
"Claire."
"How did you know who he was?"
"I told you. The news."
Adrian remained silent.
Claire looked back at the card.
Don't trust anyone who already knows Adrian Vale's name.
Martin stepped closer.
"Give me the card."
Claire pulled it away.
"What?"
"I mean let me see it."
"You just read over my shoulder."
"Claire, this guy isn't safe."
Adrian leaned casually against the table.
"You dated him?"
Claire looked at him sharply.
"None of your business."
"Three years," Martin said.
Adrian's eyes stayed on Claire.
"Long enough to know her father's name."
"Everyone knows someone's father's name."
"Not everyone searches his probate file."
Martin went still.
Claire's head snapped toward him.
"You what?"
Martin glared at Adrian.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Adrian reached inside his waistcoat.
This time he withdrew his phone.
He tapped the screen and set it on the table.
A photograph appeared.
Martin.
Leaving the county records office.
Date stamp: eight months earlier.
Claire stared.
"Why were you looking at my father's probate records?"
Martin's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Adrian spoke calmly.
"Ask him what he was looking for."
Claire looked at her ex.
"What were you looking for?"
"I can explain."
"That's usually what people say right before they explain something terrible."
"Claire—"
"What were you looking for?"
Martin's jaw tightened.
Adrian watched him.
Too closely.
"Saint Orion," Martin said.
Claire felt every hair rise on her arms.
The same phrase her father had written.
She turned toward Adrian.
"What is Saint Orion?"
Adrian looked at Martin.
"A reason your birthday invitations disappeared."
"What does that mean?"
"Seventeen cancellations in four hours?"
Claire stared.
"You know about that?"
"Some were real."
"Some?"
"Fourteen were encouraged."
Claire's face went cold.
"By who?"
Martin stepped backward.
Adrian's men shifted near the door.
Martin saw them.
"Don't," Adrian said.
It was the first time his voice sounded dangerous.
Martin stopped.
Claire's pulse hammered.
"Martin."
He looked at her.
And for the first time in the two years since their breakup, Claire saw someone she had never known.
Not awkward.
Not gentle.
Afraid.
"I was supposed to make sure you stayed home tonight," he said.
Claire's mouth went dry.
"Why?"
Martin looked toward Adrian.
"Because if she contacted that number, you would come."
Adrian's jaw tightened.
Claire whispered, "Who wanted me home?"
Martin didn't answer.
Claire grabbed his wrist.
"Who?"
His phone buzzed.
Everyone heard it.
Martin looked down.
The color drained from his face.
Adrian reached for the device.
Martin pulled away.
Too late.
Claire saw the notification.
A message.
One sentence.
SHE SENT THE INVITATION. MOVE TO PHASE TWO.
Claire released him.
The ballroom doors slammed shut.
One of Adrian's men turned.
Another reached inside his jacket.
Then every light in the room went out.
In the darkness, Claire heard the side door unlock.
Someone was coming in.
May you like
And Martin whispered a name Claire had not heard since the day her father died.
"Saint Orion."
