Chapter 8
527words
The bell above the door chimed. My head snapped up.
Felix Blackwood stepped inside, ducking slightly through the doorframe. Raindrops glistened on the shoulders of his charcoal suit. He paused, scanning the room with the practiced vigilance of someone accustomed to assessing threats. Several patrons glanced up, then quickly looked away, intimidated by the sheer force of his presence.
When his eyes found mine, something shifted in his expression—a flicker of recognition that shouldn't exist. My stomach tightened. In my previous life, this man had desperately tried to save me while Alexander stood frozen. Now he was my unwitting path to revenge.
He moved toward me with the fluid grace of a predator, navigating between tables without breaking eye contact. I stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my blouse, forcing myself to appear composed despite the storm of emotions his presence evoked.
"Mr. Blackwood," I said, extending my hand and praying he wouldn't notice how it trembled.
"Ms. Winters." His voice was deeper than I remembered, resonating in the space between us.
His palm engulfed mine, warm and calloused in places a businessman's hands shouldn't be. The contact sent an electric current up my arm—not attraction, but something more primal. Recognition. Connection. As if some part of me remembered the desperate reach of his hand as I sank beneath the waves.
"Please," he said, his thumb brushing across my knuckles before releasing me, "call me Felix."
I withdrew my hand, fighting the urge to wipe it against my skirt. "Lyra, then."
He settled into the chair across from me, the wooden frame creaking slightly under his weight. Up close, I noticed details I'd missed during our brief encounters in my previous life—a small scar bisecting his right eyebrow, the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched as he studied me.
"Your fellowship application was impressive," he said, tilting his head slightly. "But it left me with questions."
I reached for my tea, using the motion to gather my thoughts. "What kind of questions?"
"You argue that traditional authentication methods fail because they focus on what's visible rather than what's hidden." He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "That's an unusual perspective for someone so early in their career."
I set down my cup with a sharp click against the saucer. "I've found that looking where others don't often reveal the truth."
Felix's eyes never left my face as I spoke. His intensity was unnerving—not the calculated charm Alexander had wielded, but something rawer, more honest in its scrutiny.
"The foundation is currently facing an... interesting challenge," he said, lowering his voice. "One that might benefit from your particular skills."
My pulse quickened. "What kind of challenge?"
Felix reached inside his jacket and withdrew a photograph, sliding it across the table. A painting—a Botticelli-style Madonna with a face that looked eerily like Vivienne Sinclair.
