The Rothschild estate looked like something out of a movie about old money and older secrets. Ivy's taxi wound up the curved driveway, past manicured lawns that probably cost more to maintain than most people's annual salary. The mansion rose from the shores of Lake Michigan like a Gothic fever dream—all dark stone and tall windows that gleamed gold in the evening light.
"This is as far as I go, lady," the taxi driver said, pulling up to the main entrance. He kept glancing at the rearview mirror like he expected something to jump out of the shadows. "You sure about this place?"
"I'm sure." Ivy handed him cash and stepped out into the October air. It smelled different here—cedar and cold water and something else she couldn't identify. Something that made the hair on her arms stand up.
The driver peeled out before she'd even reached the front steps.
Ivy adjusted her black cocktail dress and checked her small clutch purse. Inside: Katherine Mills' business cards, a small digital recorder disguised as a lipstick tube, and Clarke's silver pendant tucked into a hidden pocket. Her fake identity felt solid enough—art appraiser from New York, portfolio full of high-end clients, references that would check out if anyone called.
What didn't feel solid was her heart rate. It had been hammering since she'd gotten dressed, and it wasn't slowing down.
The front doors were massive oak things with iron handles shaped like roses. Before she could knock, they swung open silently.
"Ms. Mills, I presume?" The man who greeted her looked like he'd stepped out of a period drama. Tall, thin, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. His smile was polite and absolutely empty. "Welcome to the Rothschild estate."
"Thank you." Ivy shook his offered hand. His skin was cold, even through his gloves. "I'm looking forward to the preview."
"Of course. Right this way."
He led her through a foyer that belonged in a museum. The ceiling soared twenty feet overhead, decorated with painted frescoes that looked original. A chandelier hung in the center, crystal and gold and probably worth more than her apartment building.
But it was the artwork that made her breath catch. These weren't reproductions or inspired-by pieces. These were the real thing. A Monet water lily painting hung casually beside the staircase like it was a family photo. A sculpture that looked suspiciously like a lost Rodin piece sat on a marble pedestal.
Either the Rothschilds had incredible taste and unlimited money, or they were very good at acquiring things that didn't officially exist.
"Impressive collection," Ivy said.
"Mr. Dimitri has a particular appreciation for beauty," the man replied. Something in his tone made her glance at him sharply, but his expression remained neutral. "The auction pieces are displayed in the east wing. Shall I escort you?"
"Please."
They walked through hallways lined with more priceless art. Ivy counted at least three paintings she recognized from FBI stolen property databases, mixed in with legitimate pieces like they were all equally legal. Her trained eye catalogued everything automatically—the security cameras hidden in decorative molding, the pressure plates under certain floorboards, the way certain doors had extra locks.
This wasn't just a house. It was a fortress.
The east wing opened into a grand ballroom that took her breath away. The space was enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. Guests mingled around display cases containing the auction items, their conversations a low murmur of cultured voices and clinking glasses.
And all of them were beautiful.
Not just attractive—beautiful in a way that seemed almost unnatural. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect smiles that showed teeth just a little too white. They moved with a grace that suggested hidden strength, spoke with accents that hinted at centuries of education.
These were the vampires. Had to be. Regular rich people didn't all look like they'd been cast for the same movie.
"Champagne?" A server appeared at her elbow, offering a crystal flute.
"Thank you." Ivy took the glass and immediately noticed the server's eyes—pale blue, with pupils that seemed to catch the light wrong. Like a cat's eyes in the dark.
She was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
"The Degas is particularly striking this evening."
The voice came from behind her, deep and familiar in a way that made her entire body go still. Slowly, carefully, Ivy turned around.
Dimitri Rothschild stood three feet away, holding his own glass of champagne and looking at her like she was a mildly interesting stranger. He wore a black tuxedo that fit him like it had been sewn directly onto his body, and his dark hair was perfectly styled. Up close, the changes were even more obvious—his face was sharper than she remembered, his presence more commanding. But his eyes were the same deep blue that had haunted her dreams for ten years.
"I'm sorry?" Ivy managed to keep her voice level, professional. Katherine Mills meeting a potential client for the first time.
"The Degas." Dimitri gestured toward a nearby display case with his champagne glass. "The dancer sculpture. You were looking at it quite intently."
She hadn't been looking at the Degas at all. She'd been scanning the room for exits and cameras. But Katherine Mills would definitely be interested in a valuable sculpture.
"It's beautiful," she said, moving closer to the case. "Though I have some concerns about the provenance."
"Oh?" Dimitri stepped beside her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. Different from what Danny used to wear, more expensive, but underneath it was something else. Something that reminded her of winter nights and old books. "What sort of concerns?"
This was it. The test. If he recognized her, if he knew who she really was, this conversation would reveal it.
"The piece was reported missing from a private collection in Boston three years ago," Ivy said, studying the sculpture like it was the most fascinating thing in the room instead of the man standing next to her. "Insurance claim, FBI investigation, the works. Either it's been found and returned, or..."
"Or someone is trying to sell stolen goods." Dimitri's voice carried just a hint of amusement. "How unfortunate that would be."
Ivy met his eyes directly for the first time since he'd approached. The impact was like touching a live wire. For just a moment, his composure slipped and she saw something flicker across his face—recognition, longing, something that might have been pain.
Then it was gone, replaced by polite interest.
"I'm Katherine Mills," she said, extending her hand. "Art authentication and appraisal."
"Dimitri Rothschild." His hand was warm when he shook hers, warmer than she'd expected for someone who was supposed to be undead. His fingers lingered just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "Welcome to our little gathering."
"Thank you for including me. Your reputation precedes you."
"Does it?" That hint of amusement was back. "And what does my reputation say about me, Ms. Mills?"
That you're a vampire who runs a criminal organization and broke my heart ten years ago, Ivy thought. Out loud, she said, "That you have excellent taste and very deep pockets."
"Both flattering and accurate." Dimitri smiled, and for a heartbeat he looked exactly like Danny. The same crooked grin, the same way his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Tell me, what brings you to Chicago? Besides our humble auction, of course."
"Work, mostly. I have a client interested in acquiring some pieces for a private collection." The lie came smoothly. Katherine Mills had an entire backstory, complete with fake clients and forged authentication certificates. "Twentieth century sculptures, specifically."
"Ah, a woman of refined taste." Dimitri's eyes never left her face. "You know, you look familiar. Have we met before?"
The question hung in the air between them like a loaded gun. This was the moment. He was giving her an opening to acknowledge their past, to blow her cover, to end this charade before it really began.
"I don't think so," Ivy said calmly. "I'd remember meeting you."
Something shifted in his expression. Disappointment? Relief? She couldn't tell.
"Of course. Forgive me. I thought perhaps..." He paused, taking a sip of his champagne. "Well, they do say everyone has a doppelganger somewhere in the world."
"So they say."
A woman appeared at Dimitri's elbow—blonde, beautiful, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Ivy's car. She looked young, maybe twenty-five, but something about her eyes suggested she was much older.
"Dimitri, darling," the woman said, her voice carrying a faint accent that might have been European. "Marcus is asking about the Picasso authentication."
"Of course." Dimitri's attention shifted to the blonde, but his body language remained oriented toward Ivy. "Luna, I'd like you to meet Katherine Mills. Ms. Mills, this is Luna Rothschild."
"A pleasure," Luna said, but her smile was cooler than her brother's. Her pale blue eyes studied Ivy with the intensity of someone cataloguing every detail. "How are you finding our little party?"
"Fascinating," Ivy replied honestly. "The collection is remarkable."
"Dimitri has always had a talent for acquiring rare things." Luna's gaze lingered on Ivy's face a moment too long. "Things that others might consider... unattainable."
The conversation had undercurrents that Ivy couldn't quite parse. Luna clearly suspected something, but whether it was Ivy's identity or just general wariness toward outsiders, she couldn't tell.
"Well," Dimitri said smoothly, "I should see to my other guests. Ms. Mills, I do hope you'll consider bidding on Friday. I have a feeling you'd appreciate owning something truly unique."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Dimitri moved away, Luna following like a pale shadow. But Ivy felt his attention on her even as he greeted other guests, heard his laugh as he talked to a man in an expensive suit who kept checking his phone.
She spent the next hour playing her role perfectly. Katherine Mills examined auction pieces, made small talk with potential buyers, and collected business cards from people who looked like they could afford to buy small countries. All while staying aware of where Dimitri was in the room, how often he glanced her way, the subtle tension in his shoulders whenever she got too close to other male guests.
He was watching her. Studying her. Trying to figure out her game.
Good. That made two of them.
Around ten o'clock, the crowd began to thin. Ivy was examining a suspicious Van Gogh sketch when a server approached with a small silver tray.
"From Mr. Dimitri," the server said, offering her a folded piece of paper.
Ivy took it with steady hands, though her pulse jumped. The paper was expensive, cream-colored, with the kind of weight that suggested quality. Inside, written in handwriting she recognized despite ten years of change, was a single line:
*The library. Midnight. Come alone.*
She looked up to find Dimitri across the room, deep in conversation with an elderly man wearing enough jewelry to fund a small war. But somehow, he knew exactly when she read the note. His eyes met hers across the crowded ballroom, and he smiled.
Not the polite, public smile he'd been wearing all evening. This one was private. Dangerous. It was the smile Danny used to give her when he was planning to thoroughly distract her from her studying.
Ivy folded the note carefully and slipped it into her purse. Two hours. She had two hours to decide whether she was walking into a trap or finally getting some answers.
Either way, she was definitely going.
---
End of Chapter 3