The Gilded Pact

e death warrant for the Greenwich Village Art Collective, the vibrant, paint-splattered heart of her world, and the last tangible piece o

Enterprises. Liam Vance. The name echoed in her mind, a cold, unyielding monolith. He was the cit

new grant would come through. Now, a ninety-day countdown glared at her from the page, ticking down to the Collective's obliteration, replac

ife is about to be erased by a ma

. Her art smock, usually a badge of honor, felt like a costume of defiance here, splattered with a rainbow of dried paint. In her hands, she clutched a poster, hasti

ore she could even unfurl her banner fully, two impeccably

one intoned, his voice as flat as t

ded, her voice wavering despite her best effort

nscheduled visitors." The guard

indow began to lower. Elara's breath hitched. It was him. Liam Vance. Even from this distance, his presence was formidable. His dark ey

it annoyance? Recognition? Before she could d

nged forward, slipping past the momentarily surprised guards. She planted herself directly in front of the car, her post

t, leaving a narrow, dark slit. His gaze, now fully fixed on her, was unreadable, dissecting, and utterly devoid of emotion. He looked at her poster, then

sed window. "Who is this?" It wasn't a question seeking information

g the acquisition of the Greenwic

ng behind them. Elara tensed, preparing for the inevitable

t a smile of warmth or amusement. It was the predatory grin of a man

s voice quiet, yet cutting through the morn

n. This was not part of her desperate script. And judging by the stunned, almost bewildered expressions of the guards, it wasn't part of their