Cold Distance

# Chapter 11: Cold Distance

The silence in the east wing was absolute.

Evelyn stood at the window of her assigned suite, watching the dawn bleed gray across the Manhattan skyline. She had slept in her clothes, curled on the settee rather than the massive four-poster bed, her fingers wrapped around a letter opener she'd found in the desk drawer. A pathetic weapon, but it was something.

Three days since she'd declared herself ready to play.

Three days since Damon Blackwood had become a ghost.

She pressed her palm against the cold glass, watching her breath fog the surface. The estate was a labyrinth of polished marble and dark wood, of rooms she hadn't known existed and corridors that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking. Servants moved through it like shadows—silent, watchful, never meeting her eyes.

Except for the girl.

Evelyn turned from the window as a soft knock came at her door. She'd learned to distinguish footsteps now—the heavy tread of the security team, the clipped pace of the household staff, the deliberate silence of someone who didn't want to be heard.

The knock came again. Three quick taps, a pause, then two more.

She crossed the room and cracked the door open.

The girl couldn't have been more than nineteen. Dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, uniform pressed to knife-edge perfection, eyes that held too much knowledge for someone so young. Her name was Rosa, and she'd been the one to show Evelyn to her room on that first night, her hands trembling as she'd turned the key.

"Miss Cross." Rosa's voice was barely a whisper. "I brought your breakfast. Mr. Blackwood said you were to take it in your rooms today."

*Mr. Blackwood.* Not Damon. Never Damon anymore.

Evelyn stepped back to let her enter. The girl moved quickly, setting the tray on the escritoire by the window, her fingers lingering on the silver dome for just a moment too long.

"There's a note," Rosa said, her eyes fixed on the tray. "From Mr. Blackwood."

Evelyn's heart stuttered. She forced herself to walk slowly, to betray nothing, as she lifted the silver dome. A single sheet of cream paper lay beside the plate of untouched fruit and pastry.

She unfolded it with steady hands.

*Evelyn—*

*Business requires my attention. You will remain in the east wing until further notice. The staff has been instructed to see to your needs.*

*Do not leave the estate.*

*—D*

No warmth. No explanation. No trace of the man who had kissed her in the rain, who had promised to protect her, whose hands had trembled when he'd touched her face.

She read it twice, then let it fall to the tray.

"Is there anything else, Miss Cross?" Rosa's voice was careful, measured.

"No. Thank you."

The girl curtsied—actually curtsied, as if they were living in another century—and backed toward the door. But her hand paused on the handle, and she turned back, her expression flickering with something that looked like fear.

"Miss Cross... be careful in the west gallery. The floorboards near the Vermeer are loose."

Evelyn frowned. "I wasn't planning to—"

"The Vermeer," Rosa repeated, her voice dropping so low Evelyn had to lean forward to hear. "The one with the girl in blue. The floorboards near it are *very* loose."

She was gone before Evelyn could ask what she meant.

---

The morning stretched into an eternity of ticking clocks and distant footsteps.

Evelyn ate because she knew she needed the strength, though the food tasted like ash. She showered because the hot water helped clear her mind. She dressed in the clothes that had appeared in her wardrobe overnight—a deep burgundy dress that fit her too perfectly, as if someone had measured her while she slept.

Damon's work, probably. Or perhaps just another reminder that she was a prisoner here, however gilded her cage.

By noon, she couldn't stand the silence any longer.

She opened her door and stepped into the hallway.

The east wing was a mausoleum of faded grandeur. Portraits of Blackwood ancestors lined the walls, their eyes following her as she walked. The carpet beneath her feet was Persian silk, worn thin in places by generations of footsteps. The air smelled of old wood and lemon polish and something else—something metallic that she couldn't quite place.

She counted doors as she passed them. Twelve on this floor, each identical in their dark mahogany and brass fittings. She tried the handles of three. All locked.

The staircase at the end of the hall descended into a foyer of black and white marble, the chessboard pattern dizzying under the crystal chandelier. She paused at the bottom, listening.

Voices. Muffled, coming from somewhere to her left.

She followed them through a series of increasingly narrow corridors, past a kitchen where a cook looked up sharply and then away, past a pantry stocked with enough provisions to survive a siege. The voices grew clearer as she approached a heavy oak door, slightly ajar.

"—can't keep her locked up forever. Victor's people are getting restless."

Marcus Blackwood's voice. She recognized it from the night of the gala—smooth, polished, with an edge of cruelty he barely bothered to hide.

"She's not locked up." Damon's voice. Cold. Flat. Utterly devoid of emotion. "She's contained. There's a difference."

"Is there? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've got a pretty bird in a cage, and you're too afraid to let her fly."

A pause. Evelyn pressed herself against the wall, her heart hammering.

"She's a liability until we know what Victor wants with her. Once we do, she becomes leverage."

Leverage. Not a person. Not Evelyn. *Leverage.*

"And if Victor decides he wants her dead?"

"Then we eliminate the Cross problem."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound that threatened to escape. *Eliminate the Cross problem.* As if she were a stain on a carpet. A piece of faulty machinery. Something to be disposed of.

She didn't wait to hear more. She turned and fled, her footsteps silent on the marble, her vision blurring with tears she refused to shed.

---

The west gallery was exactly where Rosa had said it would be.

Evelyn found it on the third floor, a long, narrow room lined with paintings that would have made any museum curator weep with envy. Rembrandt. Caravaggio. A small, exquisite Monet that seemed to glow from within.

And at the far end, the Vermeer.

The girl in blue stood at a window, her face half-turned, her expression unreadable. She was caught in a moment of perfect stillness, her hand raised as if to touch something just beyond the frame. The light that fell across her face was impossibly soft, impossibly tender, as if the painter had captured not just her image but her very soul.

Evelyn stood before it, her breath catching in her throat.

She had studied this painting in art history classes. She had written papers about Vermeer's use of light, his mastery of composition, the way he could make a simple moment feel eternal. But seeing it in person, here, in this house of secrets and shadows, was different.

It was like looking into a mirror.

The girl in blue was trapped too. Caught in her frame, frozen in time, unable to move forward or back. She was beautiful and sad and utterly alone, and Evelyn understood her in a way that made her chest ache.

She reached out, her fingers hovering inches from the canvas.

The floorboard beneath her foot shifted.

She looked down. The plank was slightly raised, its edges worn smooth by repeated pressure. She pressed down with her toe, and it gave way with a soft click, revealing a narrow gap beneath.

Rosa's warning. *The floorboards near the Vermeer are loose.*

Evelyn dropped to her knees, her fingers finding the edges of the hidden compartment. It was small—no larger than a shoebox—and lined with faded velvet. Inside, a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age.

She pulled it out and opened it to the first page.

*June 3, 1987*

*My name is Eleanor Blackwood. If you're reading this, I'm probably dead.*

*But before I go, I need someone to know the truth about this family. About what we've done. About what we're still doing.*

*It started with the Crosses. It always starts with the Crosses.*

Evelyn's blood turned to ice.

She read on, her eyes devouring the cramped handwriting, the desperate scrawl of a woman who knew she was running out of time. Eleanor Blackwood had been Damon's grandmother, a woman the family had written off as mad, as unstable, as someone whose accusations couldn't be trusted.

But the journal told a different story.

It told of deals made in blood, of families destroyed to protect the Blackwood empire, of a conspiracy that stretched back decades. It told of the Cross family's downfall—not a tragedy, but a calculated execution. And at the center of it all, a name she recognized.

*Victor Mercer.*

Her uncle. The man who had smiled at her mother's funeral, who had patted her head and told her everything would be all right. The man who had systematically dismantled her family's legacy, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but ashes.

She was so absorbed in the journal that she didn't hear the footsteps until they were almost upon her.

"Miss Cross."

She slammed the journal shut and shoved it into her pocket, turning to face the intruder with what she hoped was a composed expression.

Marcus Blackwood stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his smile sharp as a blade.

"Exploring?" he asked, his voice light, conversational. "I hope you're not lost. The west gallery can be confusing for newcomers."

"I was just admiring the Vermeer." She kept her voice steady, her hands still at her sides. "It's extraordinary."

"Isn't it?" He moved closer, his footsteps deliberate, unhurried. "It was a gift from your grandfather, actually. A thank-you for services rendered."

"Services?"

"Business arrangements. The Cross family was very good at business, once upon a time." He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell his cologne—something expensive and cloying. "Before your father ran it into the ground."

"My father was a good man."

"Your father was a fool." Marcus's smile didn't waver. "He trusted the wrong people. He thought loyalty mattered more than profit. He thought love was more important than power."

"He was a good man," Evelyn repeated, her voice harder now.

"And where did that get him? Dead. His wife dead. His daughter running through the streets of New York, hiding in art galleries, pretending she wasn't a target." Marcus stepped closer, and she forced herself not to retreat. "You're a liability, Evelyn. A loose end. And my brother is too sentimental to deal with you properly."

"Your brother has made his position clear."

"Has he?" Marcus's eyes flickered to her pocket, where the journal bulged against the fabric. "I wonder what he'd say if he knew you were poking around in family secrets."

"Tell him." She lifted her chin. "I don't care."

"Brave words." He reached out, and before she could move, his fingers closed around her wrist. His grip was iron, his thumb pressing into the delicate skin where her pulse beat frantically. "But bravery won't save you. Not here. Not in this house."

"Let go of me."

"Or what?" He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "You'll run to Damon? Beg him to protect you? He won't. He can't. He has orders, and those orders don't include keeping you safe."

"I said let go."

"Or what?" He laughed, soft and cruel. "You'll scream? No one will come. The staff knows better than to interfere. And Damon is miles away, doing his father's bidding like the good little soldier he is."

Evelyn's free hand closed around the letter opener in her pocket. She'd taken it from her room, a small comfort, a pathetic defense. But it was something.

"I won't scream," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But I will make you bleed."

Marcus's eyes widened, just slightly, and she knew he'd seen the blade. He released her wrist, stepping back with a laugh that was almost admiring.

"Maybe you're not as useless as I thought." He straightened his jacket, adjusting his cuffs with practiced ease. "Enjoy the gallery, Miss Cross. I'm sure we'll see each other again."

He left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, and Evelyn stood alone among the masterpieces, her hand still wrapped around the letter opener, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.

She waited until she was sure he was gone, then she sank to her knees, the journal pressing against her thigh, the weight of everything she'd learned crushing her lungs.

*Eliminate the Cross problem.*

*It started with the Crosses. It always starts with the Crosses.*

She opened the journal again, her fingers trembling, and read on.

---

The sun was setting by the time she reached the last page.

Eleanor Blackwood's story ended abruptly, mid-sentence, as if she'd been interrupted. The final entry was dated three days before her death—officially ruled a heart attack, unofficially something far darker.

*I've hidden the evidence where they'll never find it. The real ledgers, the correspondence, the proof of what Victor Mercer did to the Cross family. It's in a place only I know, a place that will survive even if I don't.*

*If you're reading this, find the safe. Find the truth.*

*And for God's sake, don't trust the Blackwoods.*

Evelyn closed the journal and pressed it to her chest, her mind racing.

A safe. Hidden evidence. The truth about her family's destruction.

And Damon, who had kissed her like she mattered, who had promised to protect her, who had called her *leverage* and talked about *eliminating the problem.*

She should have known better. She should have trusted her instincts, the ones that had kept her alive for three years on the run. She should have remembered that beautiful men with cold eyes and careful hands were always, always dangerous.

But she had let herself believe. She had let herself hope.

And now she was trapped in a house full of enemies, holding a dead woman's secrets, with no one to trust but herself.

She stood, her legs shaking, and walked to the window. The city sprawled below her, glittering and indifferent, a million lights that held no warmth for her.

Somewhere out there, Victor Mercer was plotting her death.

Somewhere out there, the truth was waiting to be found.

And somewhere in this house, Damon Blackwood was deciding whether she was worth saving or worth sacrificing.

She pressed her palm against the glass, and for the first time in three days, she smiled.

It wasn't a happy smile.

It was the smile of a woman who had nothing left to lose.

---

The voices came again that night, drifting through the heating vents, carrying words she wasn't meant to hear.

"—the Cross girl is becoming a problem."

"Then eliminate her. Quietly. Make it look like an accident."

"And Damon?"

"Damon will do as he's told. He always does."

Evelyn lay in the darkness, the journal tucked beneath her pillow, the letter opener cold against her palm.

She didn't sleep.

She planned.