Chapter 6: The Visitor in the Rain
The brownstone apartment in Astoria was small, drafty, and smelled faintly of damp plaster and old books. Maeve sat at the scarred wooden kitchen table by the light of a single green-shaded desk lamp, cleaning the cut on her nose with a sterile antiseptic wipe. The sting was sharp, but she barely flinched.
A soft knock sounded at the front door. It wasn't the heavy, authoritative thud of the police or the frantic rap of a courier. It was a precise, double-knock—the exact signal Julian used when he forgot his keys.
Maeve stood up, slipping a small utility knife from the counter into her sleeve just in case, and walked quietly down the narrow hallway. She flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
It wasn't Julian.
Clara Vance stood on the narrow porch, framed by the amber glow of the streetlamp and the relentless drizzle of the midnight rain. She wasn't wearing her coat; her elegant black dress was damp at the shoulders, and a trench coat was draped loosely over one arm. Her blonde hair, usually pinned in a rigid bun, had loosened slightly, a few strands curling against her pale cheek. She looked older, lines of exhaustion etched around her eyes, but her cold, commanding expression remained completely unaltered.
For a long moment, neither woman spoke. The sound of traffic from the nearby avenue filled the hollow space between them.
“May I come in?” Clara asked. Her voice was remarkably steady, devoid of panic or anger.
Maeve didn't move. She stood firmly in the doorway, blocking the entrance with her body, her green bomber jacket zipped to the collar. “You’re trespassing, Ms. Vance. And unlike the hotel lobby, I don't have security guards to throw you out. Though I do have a heavy iron skillet in the kitchen.”
A faint, humorless shadow crossed Clara’s lips. “You have your father’s stubbornness. And your mother’s eyes. I should have recognized you the moment you walked into the Sterling. The resemblance is... unfortunate.”
May you like
“Unfortunate for you, maybe,” Maeve replied evenly. “You thought you buried that file twenty-five years ago. You thought you could erase forty families and build a luxury lobby over their graves without anyone ever asking questions.”
“I built an empire,” Clara said, stepping one inch closer, ignoring the rain soaking her heels. “An empire that employs thousands of people who depend on its stability every single day. You want revenge, Maeve? Fine. You’ve crashed the stock, you’ve humiliated me in front of the board, and the tabloids are tearing my life apart. What more do you want? Name your price.”
