Johnna pressed the buzzer. "Johnna Hayden to see Simon Vance."

The lock clicked open with a heavy thud.

She walked into a long hallway that smelled intensely of turpentine, varnish, and old canvas. It was a scent that made her brain light up. It smelled like purpose.

At the end of the hall, the space opened up into a massive, industrial studio. North-facing skylights flooded the room with consistent, diffused light. Workstations were set up with surgical precision-microscopes, suction tables, trays of pigments.

A man in a sharp blazer approached her. Simon Vance. He looked more like a hedge fund manager than an artist.

"Ms. Hayden," he said, shaking her hand. His grip was firm, his eyes scanning her simple black trousers and white blouse. "You didn't list any recent employment."

"I was... on a sabbatical," Johnna said smoothly.

A snort came from the nearest workstation. A man with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from a microscope. This was Sterling, the studio's lead restorer. He looked at her with open disdain.

"Sabbatical," Sterling mocked. "Three years? In this industry, that means your hands have turned to stone."

Johnna ignored him. Her eyes were drawn to a large easel in the center of the room. On it sat a 17th-century Dutch still life. It was a disaster. A jagged, ugly tear ran right through the center of a floral arrangement, shattering the illusion of depth.

"The Van Aelst," Simon said, following her gaze. "Transport accident. The client is... displeased."

"It's ruined," Sterling said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Structural integrity is compromised. We're discussing damage control, not restoration."

"I can fix it," Johnna said.

The room went silent. Sterling laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You? Based on a portfolio from three years ago?"

Simon looked at her, calculating. "That's a bold claim. If you touch it and make it worse, I'm liable for millions."

"I won't make it worse," Johnna said. She walked over to the painting, leaning in close but not touching. She studied the weave of the canvas, the brittle flaking of the paint around the tear. "The canvas needs a thread-by-thread re-weave. The loss is minimal if you align the warp and weft under magnification before bonding."

She looked back at Simon. "Give me a test. Any scrap canvas. I'll show you the bond."

Simon hesitated, then nodded. "Sterling, give her the practice piece."

Sterling threw a slashed piece of old linen onto a table. "Knock yourself out, sweetheart."

Johnna sat down. She put on the magnifying visor. She pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves.

The moment the tools were in her hands, the world narrowed. The noise of the studio faded. The anxiety about Chadwick, the divorce, the money-it all evaporated. There was only the fiber, the adhesive, and the problem.

She worked for two hours. She didn't drink water. She didn't shift in her chair. She aligned broken threads with a dentist's pick, applying microscopic dots of adhesive to a two-inch section of the tear, reconstructing the grid of the fabric with painstaking slowness.

"Done," she said, pulling off the visor. "With the stabilization sample, at least."

Sterling strolled over, smirk in place. He picked up the canvas, holding it up to the light to find the flaw.

The smirk vanished.

He frowned. He brought the canvas closer to his face. He ran a finger over the surface. It was smooth.

"Where was the tear?" Simon asked, stepping closer.

Sterling lowered the canvas slowly. He looked at Johnna with a mixture of hatred and begrudging awe. "It's... seamless."

Simon took the canvas. He whistled low. "This technique... the micro-bridging. I haven't seen weave manipulation like this since the old Master in Florence passed away. You have his hands, Ms. Hayden."

Johnna kept her face impassive. That was my father, she thought, but she said nothing. The Dyers had never asked about her father's profession, only his bank account. To them, he was a nobody. To this room, he was a legend.

"You're hired," Simon said. "Double the standard rate. Can you start on the Van Aelst now?"

"Yes," Johnna said.

"Get her a station," Simon barked at a junior assistant.

Johnna stood up, feeling a rush of dopamine. She was back. She was The Ghost. She was powerful.

She walked toward the break room to get a glass of water. Her phone, tucked in her pocket, began to vibrate against her hip.

She pulled it out, expecting her mother.

The screen lit up with a name that made her blood run cold.

Chadwick.

The joy of the last hour shattered. The reality of her other life came crashing back in. She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the decline button.

---

But old habits were chains made of steel. She swiped accept.

"What?" she answered, her voice sharp.

"Where are you?" Chadwick's voice was tight, clipped. Not angry, but stressed.

"I'm working," Johnna said. "Something you probably didn't think I was capable of."

"I need to see you," he said, ignoring her jab. "Now."

"I'm not coming back to the apartment, Chadwick. Talk to my lawyer. Oh wait, I don't have one because I signed your damn papers."

"It's Grandmother," he said.

The name stopped Johnna cold. Grandmother Dyer. The matriarch. The woman who had taught Johnna which fork to use without making her feel small. The only person in that cold, marble mausoleum of a family who had ever squeezed Johnna's hand with genuine warmth.

"What happened?" Johnna asked, her voice dropping.

"Her heart," Chadwick said. "She's... asking for you. She's agitated. The doctors say we need to keep her calm."

Johnna closed her eyes. It was a trap. She knew it was a trap. But it was a trap baited with the one thing she couldn't walk away from.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"I'm tracking your phone," he said. "I'm outside."

Johnna looked out the window. A black Maybach was idling at the curb, looking menacingly out of place against the graffitied brick of Chelsea.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"I know," he said.

Johnna hung up. She told Simon she had a family emergency and would be back in the morning. She walked out of the studio, stripping off her white gloves.

She opened the back door of the Maybach and slid in. The interior smelled of leather and Chadwick. He was sitting on the other side of the seat, looking immaculate and exhausted.

He looked at her clothes-the paint-stained trousers, the simple blouse. His brow furrowed.

"What kind of gallery lets you dress like that?" he asked.

"The kind that values the work, not the display," she retorted.

He didn't press. He reached down and picked up a velvet box from the seat between them. He held it out to her.

"What is this?"

"A gift. For Grandmother. Give it to her. Tell her it's from both of us."

Johnna opened the box. Inside sat a jade carving of a lotus flower. The green was deep, translucent, oily-Imperial Jade. She knew the market. This piece was worth more than her mother's house.

"You're trying to buy her happiness?" Johnna asked, snapping the box shut.

"I'm trying to give her peace," Chadwick said. "She thinks we're happy. She doesn't know about the filing. If she finds out while she's in this state..."

"So I'm here to lie," Johnna said.

"You're here to be kind," Chadwick corrected.

The car merged onto the highway, heading east toward the Hamptons. The drive was long. The silence in the back seat was thick enough to choke on. The space was confined, intimate.

Every time the car took a sharp turn, their knees brushed.

Johnna pulled her leg away as if burned. Chadwick didn't move. She saw his jaw muscle feather. He was tense.

"So," he said, breaking the silence after an hour. "You found a job fast. Reception?"

Johnna looked out the window at the passing trees. "Something like that."

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. If he thought she was answering phones, let him. It made her real life feel safer, hidden away from his judgment.

"That's... good," he said awkwardly. "It's good to keep busy."

He sounded so patronizing. He sounded like he was talking to a child who had set up a lemonade stand.

The car slowed, turning through the massive iron gates of the Dyer estate. The gravel crunched under the tires. The main house loomed ahead, a sprawling stone mansion that looked more like a fortress than a home.

Johnna felt a familiar tightness in her chest. The Golden Cage. She had escaped it for three days. Now she was walking right back in.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Johnna stepped out, clutching the velvet box. She took a deep breath, fixing a fake, serene smile on her face. It was time to perform.

---

"She's in the master suite," the butler murmured.

Chadwick placed a hand on the small of Johnna's back to guide her. The heat of his palm seared through her blouse. She flinched, stepping away from his touch. He dropped his hand, his expression hardening.

They walked up the sweeping staircase in silence.

Grandmother Dyer lay in the center of a massive four-poster bed. She looked tiny, swallowed by the heavy brocade comforters. Her skin was like parchment, translucent and fragile.

"Johnna," the old woman rasped.

Johnna rushed to the bedside, dropping to her knees. She took the old woman's hand. It was cold and dry.

"I'm here, Grandmother," she said softly.

Grandmother Dyer opened her eyes. They were milky with age, but beneath the haze, there was a spark. A sharp, assessing intelligence that Johnna had always admired.

"You left," Grandmother accused, her voice weak but stern. "You left my grandson."

"I..." Johnna stammered. She looked at Chadwick. He was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at the floor.

"We had a disagreement," Chadwick said. "It's resolved."

Grandmother coughed. It was a wet, rattling sound that went on too long. A doctor, standing in the shadows of the room, stepped forward to check her pulse.

"She needs rest," the doctor said, looking at Chadwick. "No stress. Her heart is operating at thirty percent capacity."

Grandmother gripped Johnna's hand with surprising strength. "Don't leave. Stay. Until I'm... better."

"I have to work, Grandmother," Johnna said gently.

"Work?" Grandmother scoffed, then wheezed. "Nonsense. Stay here. I want to see you. I want to see..." She looked at Johnna's stomach. "I want to see the future."

Johnna froze. The pressure for an heir. It had always been the subtext, now it was the text.

"We will stay," Chadwick said abruptly. "For the weekend. Until you're stable."

Johnna shot him a glare. He ignored her.

"Good," Grandmother sighed, closing her eyes. A small smile played on her lips. "Good."

Dinner was a silent affair in the dining room that could seat thirty. Grandfather Dyer sat at the head of the table, cutting his steak with surgical precision.

"The trust stipulates marital cohabitation for full disbursement of the quarterly allowance," Grandfather said, not looking up. "I'm glad you two came to your senses. Divorce is expensive. And vulgar."

Johnna pushed a pea around her plate. They weren't people to him. They were assets.

Later, the butler led them to their room.

"I prepared the East Suite," the butler said.

"We need separate rooms," Johnna said quickly.

The butler cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward Grandmother's door. "Madam was quite insistent, sir. She demanded the East Suite for you both because it shares a connecting door with her room. She wants to be able to... call out if she needs you. She specifically forbade us from preparing any other guest rooms."

Chadwick sighed, loosening his tie. "Fine. It's just for a few nights."

He walked into the room. It was the room they had used on their honeymoon. The bed was enormous.

Johnna stood by the door, hugging her arms. "I'm not sleeping with you."

"I'll take the sofa," Chadwick said, grabbing a pillow from the bed. He tossed it onto the chaise lounge by the window. "I'm not an animal, Johnna."

He took off his jacket and shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his back. Johnna looked away, her mouth dry.

She changed in the bathroom and climbed into the massive bed, staying on the far edge.

The lights went out.

The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall. Johnna lay awake, staring into the dark. She could hear Chadwick shifting on the too-small sofa. She could hear his breathing-slow, rhythmic.

She felt trapped. The luxury was suffocating. She was a prisoner in a castle, guarded by a dying queen and a husband who wanted to replace her.

"Johnna?" Chadwick's voice came from the dark.

"Go to sleep, Chadwick."

"I didn't want it to be like this," he whispered.

"Like what?"

"Like a war."

Johnna closed her eyes tight. "You started it when you printed those papers."

He didn't answer. The silence stretched, heavy and unresolved, until sleep finally dragged her under.

---