Page 51 of Stealing Daddy's Heart

George clears his throat, his voice gruff with emotion. “That's right. We'll face this as a team.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” she says, gripping our hands, her determination clear.

Skylar beams, grateful for the support. George nods approvingly, but I can see the worry lines etched on his face.

“Let's put together everything we know about the Scarpettas,” I say. “I’ll reach out to some of my contacts. See if we can gather additional information to support what Autumn digs up.”

While I'm on board with Skylar's idea, we're dealing with a dangerous organization. We need backup plans and contingencies.

I pull out my phone, sending a coded message to Asher. We need to meet and compare notes. Asher's been gathering intel on the Scarpettas, working in the shadows where he excels.

With only three days until the show opening, we have our work cut out for us. But as I look between Skylar and George, a weight lifts from my shoulders.

For the first time since this mess began, we're no longer working at cross purposes but united against a common threat.

We're no longer reacting to the Scarpettas' moves. We are taking the fight to them.

Chapter 16

Skylar

The clinkof champagne glasses and the low murmur of conversation fill the air as I stand in the center of the Riverside Gallery, watching the last few guests mingle around the artwork.

The warm lighting casts shadows on the paintings and sculptures, each piece carefully chosen to tell our story. I hear words like “innovative” and “groundbreaking” from critics and guests.

The crowd's still buzzing from earlier performances. Garrett is beside me, solid as a rock, his proud gaze warming me.

Dad hovers nearby, smiling approvingly. It's surreal, both of them here for my triumph.

My eyes flit from face to face, drinking in the expressions of awe and admiration. Red dots pop up on artwork faster than I can track them, each dot is a tangible sign of success.

Yet, despite the whirlwind of praise, sales, and congratulations, there's a hollowness in my chest. Bittersweet. Like I've reached the summit only to find another level to climb just out of reach.

The Scarpettas' shadow still looms, a dark cloud threatening to overshadow this perfect moment.

As I scan the crowd, my eyes land on a familiar face—a critic I recognize from Art Forum. He's tapping out notes on his phone, his brow furrowed.

I've seen more smiles tonight than I have in ages. But what will the critic say about the exhibition?

I take a deep breath. This is my night. I won't let anyone or anything ruin it.

Vanessa appears at my side, a glass of champagne in each hand. “Madame Beaumont's dying to meet you,” she gushes. She passes me a flute, bubbling with excitement. “You're the talk of the night.” Excusing myself from Garrett, I follow Vanessa through the crowd.

I force a smile as my stepmother introduces me to Madame Beaumont, her perfectly manicured hand on my arm. I sip champagne, fizz tickling my nose.

I'm in the middle of discussing Wolf Winters' fascinating artistic background with Madame Beaumont—did you know the sculptor was a former football player?—when a commotion at the entrance catches my eye.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and there's Autumn, weaving through the crowd. She's a blur of flushed cheeks and wild hair, almost hidden behind an enormous bouquet. They're comically huge.

Heads turn as she approaches, but my eyes are on her huge grin. I excuse myself from Madame Beaumont and meet Autumn halfway.

“Victory,” she announces.

“Autumn—what are you talking about?”

The flowers land in my arms. “Read the card.”

My fingers tremble as I fumble with the crisp white envelope hidden within the flowers. The world narrows to this single moment, every heartbeat an eternity as I tear open the envelope. I'm too aware of the eyes on us as I quickly scan the words inside.

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