Page 43 of Anchor
Applause rose. Heather angled herself to step ahead, to control the message. But Claire saw the moment clearly. She saw the opening, the trap, and the way out.
Her heart drummed as she stepped forward. Not beside. Not behind. Forward.
“Thank you,” Claire said into the mic. She didn’t look at Heather but at the room. “This exhibit isn’t about politics or parties. It’s about students. About the way we read the world and the way the world reads us.
“When I teach my classes, I tell them language always hides something beneath the surface. That silence can be as loud as a word. The smallest slip can tell you who someone really is. Tonight’s exhibit is proof of that. Every artifact here holds more than one meaning. And every student who worked on this, every late night, every draft—they’re the reason we’re standing here. Not me. Not titles. Not campaigns. Them.”
The crowd shifted, engaged now. The applause swelled again. Claire smiled, calm and steady. She glanced once at her students beaming near the front, and the pride there hit harder than anything her mother could manufacture.
Heather stood frozen half a step behind her, her own smile still plastered on but brittle at the edges, her hand hovering just shy of Claire’s arm, where the cameras could still see it.
Claire kept going. “Language is never neutral. That’s why I teach it, why we study it. And that’s why this work matters, not just to me, but to all of us. Thank you for being here tonight. I hope you listen closely. You might hear something you didn’t expect.”
She let the silence hold for a beat—her silence, not her mother’s—before stepping back from the mic.
The applause thundered. And Heather Bowman had no choice but to clap with the rest of them.
The night stretched on longerthan it should have. Applause gave way to chatter, to the rustle of coats and programs, to donors lining up at Claire’s elbow with their polite but predatory smiles. She stood her ground, graceful even in exhaustion, answering with the kind of restraint only years of practice could sharpen. Heather circled the edges of the room like a hawk, not moving in, not retreating either.
Reid could read the undertow—tired, frayed, and carrying a battle most of the room hadn’t even noticed. And she was still holding herself upright because Heather was watching. Because half the people in this museum were watching.
Reid leaned down as the next cluster pressed closer, his mouth just near her ear. “Time.”
She glanced at him, and he caught her hand, not tightly, just a firm tether, then turned her toward the nearest corridor. Spartan shifted without a word, intercepting the donor who tried to follow.
The SUV was already at the curb, engine low, Torch at the door. Reid ushered her in, hand lingering at her shoulder until she slid inside. When he joined her, the hush of the cabin sealed them off from the museum, from eyes, and from Heather.
She sat with her hands in her lap, earrings still catching light. But her shoulders sagged now. Reid didn’t say anything. He just reached over, took her hand, and held it steady while the SUV pulled into the night.
Inside his chest, the vow came back, harder this time:No one touches her. Not Heather. Not Vos. Not anyone. Not while I’m breathing.
PARKER HOUSE HOTEL –THE LANSING SUITE – 0503 HOURS
The suite was dim and silent, tucked into the top floor of the city’s most discreet hotel. Expensive enough to never ask questions. The kind of place where secrets slept well.
Heather Bowman stood at the window in a pale silk blouse, sleeves rolled once at the elbow, heels long discarded. Her hair was down for the first time all night, and she hated that it made her look softer. She was furious, nursing a glass of something aged, neat, no ice.
Behind her, the lock on the suite door slid open with a quiet mechanical click.
She didn’t turn. “You’re late.”
Lucien Vos stepped in, rain drying on his coat, eyes taking in the room without blinking. “You’re awake.”
“I never sleep well after fundraisers.”
He closed the door without a sound and shrugged off the coat. “Still lying to yourself, Heather?”
She sipped her drink. “Still stalking me, Lucien?”
His lips curled faintly. “You called.”
“I sent a two-line text through an encrypted app.”
“And you knew I’d come.”
She turned at that, just enough to let him see the line of her throat, the pulse she hated him for knowing. “You always come when it suits you.”
Vos crossed to the sideboard and poured his own drink without asking. He knew where everything was.
