Ethan Shaw saw the shift in Molly's expression – a rare, unnerving seriousness that cut through her usual vibrant energy. His thumb instinctively found the obsidian worry stones at his wrist, rolling them with a soft click. "Molly… you've seen the stuff about me and Liana online?" His voice was cautious.
Molly leveled a withering look at him, punctuated by an exaggerated eye roll. "Ethan, it's the internet age. It's practically unavoidable. My TikTok feed is currently seventy percent 'Wall Street Recluse & Rising Starlet,' and the other thirty is 'Liana Hartley & Cole Sterling: Will They/Won't They?'" Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
A flicker of admiration crossed Ethan's face. *Adaptable as always.* "Liana and Sterling? That's just PR. Sterling forced it on her. It's purely manufactured." His voice hardened. "Sterling's a known playboy, ethically bankrupt."
Molly tilted her head, her gaze sharp. "And Liana told you that herself? That it's all fake?"
Ethan nodded firmly. "Yes. She's not like that. She's genuine." His conviction was absolute.
Molly pressed her lips together. *Oh, Simp-sama…* "So, there's absolutely no chance they ever actually dated?"
"None," Ethan stated, his tone brooking no argument. "Don't believe the tabloid garbage." His jaw was set.
Molly knew that stubborn tilt of his chin. Words wouldn't budge him. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. "Right. Well, Simpy McSimperson just got dethroned as the undisputed champion."
Ethan frowned. "What?"
Molly took a deliberate sip of her latte. "Nothing. Moving on. Whatever you *think* is going on with Liana Hartley, you absolutely cannot pull stunts like shutting down Fifth Avenue again. The financial hit? The PR nightmare? Are you actively trying to tank Shaw Enterprises?" Her knuckles tapped the cool marble countertop for emphasis.
Ethan's response was immediate, ingrained reflex kicking in. "Understood. Won't happen again." Obedience to Molly was as natural as breathing.
Another tap on the counter. "Did Liana message you about last night? After the photos hit?"
"She did," Ethan confirmed, a hint of something – satisfaction? – in his voice. *She cared.*
"Show me." Molly held out her hand.
Without a second's hesitation, Ethan unlocked his phone and passed it over. Privacy wasn't a concept that applied to Molly.
Her deliberate inaction on the paparazzi photos had been strategic. She needed to gauge Liana's play. Molly scrolled through the message history. The screen was dominated by variations of "Ethan!" and effusive thanks, painting a picture of sweet, unassuming gratitude. The tone was carefully calibrated – affectionate but distant, a masterclass in emotional string-pulling.
Then came last night's message:
> **[Liana: Ethan. Saw the photos. So your 'urgent business' was playing personal shopper? Who is she?]**
Ethan's morning reply:
> **[Ethan: That was my sister, Molly. Don't overthink it.]**
Silence from Liana since.
The coincidence of the paparazzi being perfectly positioned inside the mall nagged at Molly. If they were tailing Liana, why weren't they outside waiting for her arrival? Why were they *inside*, ready to capture Ethan with an unknown woman? The simplest explanation: Liana had planted them. She hadn't shown, but the pap, already embedded, saw Ethan with Molly. Ethan's own notoriety made it irresistible clickbait. *Fuel for the Cole Sterling jealousy engine,* Molly deduced. *A gambit that backfired.*
Molly's long lashes swept down, casting delicate shadows. Two more decisive taps on the counter. If yesterday failed, Liana would likely try again.
She placed the phone back on the counter. "So, Ethan. You're genuinely into Liana Hartley?"
Ethan considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Met her at a charity gala. She's… different. Grounded. Doesn't play the usual games." He recalled, "Everyone else was falling over themselves to schmooze me, offer connections. She kept to herself. Respectful distance."
*Ah, the old 'I'm Not Like Other Gold Diggers' routine,* Molly thought, keeping her expression neutral. "Hmm. Well, judging by your texts, she does seem lovely. Looks like last night's little scandal upset her. You should make it up to her." She paused for effect. "Book out a nice restaurant tonight. Something romantic. Apologize properly."
Ethan's dark eyes lit up, genuine surprise and hope blooming. "Really? You… you're okay with me seeing her?" A rare, unguarded smile transformed his usually stern features.
Molly shrugged. "As long as your bank account stays healthy and Shaw Enterprises thrives? Date whoever you want. You're a grown man with… well, substantial assets." She waved a hand vaguely. "Carla, make it happen. Somewhere exclusive."
"Consider it handled, Mr. Shaw," Carla affirmed, already typing notes into her tablet.
---
Molly spent the morning securing her new ID, then settled in to wait for Carla's intel back at the Tribeca penthouse. Her respect for Carla grew by the hour. Managing Ethan's sprawling business empire *and* his chaotic personal life? The woman deserved every penny of her undoubtedly seven-figure salary.
Molly had entrusted Carla with two discreet tasks:
1. Get the details of the restaurant Ethan booked for Liana.
2. Find out which high school Cole Sterling's younger brother attended.
By early evening, Carla's encrypted messages arrived:
> **[Carla]: Cole Sterling's brother: Connor Sterling. Attends Stuyvesant High School (Senior Year).**
> **[Carla]: Tonight's venue: 'Sweet Serenade'. Reservation: 7:30 PM for Mr. Shaw & Ms. Hartley.**
> **[Carla]: Planning to observe, Molly? ;)**
Molly grinned. Carla Vance was a national treasure. 'Sweet Serenade'? Perfectly on-brand for Ethan's intended romantic gesture.
> **[Molly]: Thanks, superstar! Nope, my evening plans involve less champagne and more… reconnaissance. ;)**
Carla's reply was swift.
> **[Carla]: Understood. One more thing: Property records search completed. The townhouse on East 76th… current owner is listed as Xavier Thorne.**
Molly froze, her bright smile faltering. *Xavier Thorne.* The name landed like a physical blow, dislodging a cache of fiercely competitive high school memories she'd neatly compartmentalized. *Of course.* The universe had a wicked sense of humor. Their family's sanctuary, the place saturated with memories of her parents and their laughter, now belonged to her former academic arch-nemesis.
*What are the odds?* She quickly opened a browser on her new phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard. **Xavier Thorne.**
His image filled the screen instantly. Time had refined his features, stripping away adolescent sharpness and replacing it with a potent, almost unsettling elegance. The silver-framed glasses were still there, an intellectual armor. The small, tea-colored mole beside the bridge of his nose remained, an anchor of familiarity in his otherwise perfected visage. He looked… like a Renaissance prince sculpted from marble and moonlight.
She clicked a reputable financial news link. *Thorne.* The name now headed **Titan Capital**, arguably the most influential venture capital firm globally. Titan had evolved from a niche tech fund into a behemoth, its fingerprints on nearly every major tech unicorn and disruptive enterprise. Its founder and managing partner? Xavier Thorne. Estimated net worth: comfortably in the tens of billions.
Molly wasn't surprised, exactly. The razor-sharp intellect that had constantly challenged her for valedictorian, the ruthless focus that mirrored her own… it was a blueprint for this level of success. Still, the sheer scale was staggering. Here she was, technically eighteen and effectively starting over, while her old rival sat atop a financial empire at twenty-nine.
A wry, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. "Guess being terminally single-minded pays off… literally." She muttered a popular online lament, "If depression were a marketable skill…"
But dwelling on the gap was pointless. The real question: Would Thorne, after all these years and with his vast wealth, be willing to sell a single, albeit sentimentally priceless, townhouse back to her? She had no idea. But one thing at a time. First, apprehend the paparazzo.
Tonight's mission: Operation Dogwhistle.
---
7:28 PM. Outside 'Sweet Serenade', a discreetly upscale French bistro tucked away on a tree-lined street.
A figure huddled low behind a bulky fire hydrant, a high-end camera with a telephoto lens clutched tightly. This was prime real estate, offering a clear sightline to the restaurant's entrance while providing decent cover. He'd considered his car, but Liana Hartley's agent had been clear: *Crisp, intimate shots. No grainy long-distance crap.* The bushes had been too obvious. The hydrant was… inspired.
*Tonight's the night,* he thought, adrenaline buzzing. Yesterday's 'Recluse Dumps Starlet' drama was pure gold. Tonight's 'Grand Romantic Gestate: Recluse Wins Her Back' sequel? Platinum. Traffic was about to explode.
Headlights cut through the twilight. A sleek, black Bentley glided to a stop. The rear door opened. Ethan Shaw emerged, impeccably tailored in a charcoal suit, the obsidian beads a stark contrast against his cuff. The paparazzo raised his camera, finger poised on the shutter release.
Just as he began to depress the button, a firm hand landed on his shoulder. A cheerful, female voice, laced with mock-authority, spoke right beside his ear:
"Excuse me, sir? No loitering. Especially not behind city property with expensive camera equipment."