When the dessert arrived—a stunning, three-tiered vanilla bean torte adorned with edible gold leaf—Julian leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he whispered, his breath warm and smelling of aged bourbon. “Chloe and I have one more surprise for you downstairs. We need five minutes to coordinate with the valet. Don’t eat all the cake without us.”
My twenty-six-year-old sister, **Chloe**, our company’s vendor coordinator, offered me a dazzling, dimpled smile from across the table, grabbed her tailored cashmere coat, and followed him out the heavy double doors.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.
Assuming they were struggling with whatever oversized gift or floral display they had concocted, I slipped away from the chatter and took the private elevator down to Level Three of the cold, concrete parking garage.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft, mechanical hiss. The air here was damp and smelled of motor oil, exhaust fumes, and cold autumn rain. I stepped out quietly on the concrete, following the faint, unmistakable sound of muffled laughter coming from near the emergency stairwell.
I rounded a massive structural pillar and stopped dead.
The breath was violently ripped from my lungs.
