Kevan stared at her, trying to find the angle. Everyone wanted something. "What game are you playing?"

Iona didn't blink. "No game. I just don't need your money."

Kevan stood up, his jaw tight. He caught a whiff of her scent-solvents and linseed oil. "What were you doing in there?"

"Painting," she said simply.

He stared at her for a long moment, then turned and walked toward his bedroom. "Don't burn the apartment down."

The next morning, Iona checked her email. An encrypted reply from a top-tier Sotheby's address was waiting. Her code had worked. The senior appraiser was practically begging for a private viewing, offering to meet anywhere, anytime, under any conditions. Iona agreed to a meeting in three days at a private club, demanding an NDA.

She got dressed to visit the Hollis family. As she walked out of the elevator into the lobby, she saw Kevan and Arthur waiting by the town car.

Arthur's hand was raised, and the ring glinted in the morning sun. The feeling of dread hit Iona like a physical blow. The bad luck was stronger now. It was hungry.

She walked over to them. Kevan gave her a warning look.

Iona ignored him. She looked directly at Arthur. "Mr. Finch, I wasn't joking the other day. That ring is dangerous. Get rid of it. The historical precedent I mentioned is too strong to be a coincidence. Please, don't wear it anywhere involving heights."

Arthur paled, remembering the elevator incident. Kevan stepped between them, his voice like ice. "Iona. Stop."

"I'm trying to help," she said calmly.

"You're being hysterical," Kevan snapped. "Get in the car, Arthur. We're late."

Arthur hesitated, then got in. Iona watched them drive away. She had done her duty. She hailed a cab, her mind already shifting to her family.

In the town car, Kevan was furious. "A Rust Belt girl lecturing us on antiques. It's embarrassing."

Arthur twisted the ring on his finger. "Sir, the elevator... what if she's right?"

"Coincidence," Kevan said firmly. "There's no such thing as curses."

They arrived at Vance Group headquarters. The private elevator was waiting. They stepped inside, the doors sliding shut.

Arthur stared at the floor numbers, his heart pounding. He thought about her words. "Heights."

The elevator began to ascend.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. A high-pitched screech echoed through the shaft.

Arthur's nervousness vanished.

The lights went out, plunging the elevator into darkness. The red emergency light bathed the small space in a bloody glow.

"Sir!" Arthur grabbed the handrail, his knuckles white.

Kevan's instincts kicked in. He didn't waste a second on panic. He immediately pressed the emergency call button-no response. He tried the intercom-dead silence.

A violent jolt shook the car. Then a sound-metal snapping, like a gunshot.

The elevator dropped.

It wasn't a smooth descent. It was a free fall. Arthur screamed, his stomach lurching into his throat.

Kevan grabbed the railing with one hand and shoved Arthur against the wall. "Bend your knees! Hold the rail!"

The floor numbers were a blur. 40... 30... 20...

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. She was right. The ring. The heights.

Kevan's mind was ice. He thought of the cables. This was a top-of-the-line system. Cables didn't just snap.

10... 9... 8...

Kevan braced himself, his muscles locked.

A deafening screech filled the shaft as the emergency brakes engaged. Metal ground against metal. The elevator lurched violently, throwing them against the walls like rag dolls.

Kevan hit his head on the panel, a hot rush of blood streaming down his forehead. Arthur collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

The car stopped, swaying sickeningly between the third and fourth floors.

Sirens wailed outside. Voices shouted from above and below.

Kevan wiped the blood from his eyes, his chest heaving. He looked at the severed cables above them. Seven out of eight had been cut clean through. The eighth had snapped under the strain.

This wasn't an accident. It was a hit.

And his wife-the woman he had dismissed as a crazy, broke gold-digger-had predicted it down to the detail. Heights. Falling.

Who the hell was Iona Sanders?