Three.

Maria

The moment I step off the bus, I'm hit by a blast of humidity in the face. I'd pause, but everybody is moving fast, and I'm trying to keep up as I exit the Port Authority. I speed walk as if I know where I'm going, and I hope I do. Times Square is like stepping into another world, with bright colors and Broadway billboards over my head. For a moment, I stand still on the sidewalk, soaking in the chaos surrounding me. It's exhilarating and overwhelming all at once—until a woman jostles me out of her way.

Stay focused, Maria. Stop acting like a tourist.

I start moving again, looking for a pay phone, but they must only exist on old TV shows. I pull the card with Mercy's address out of my pocket and start walking, not entirely sure how I will actually get there.

I'm hoping I can stay with my cousin for a little while. I've never been sure how we're related, but we've called each other "cousin" since we were babies.

Until Dad stopped us from talking.

I try to keep pace, walking on pavement littered with flattened trash, surrounded by people of every shape, size, and color imaginable. As I weave my way through the crowd, I can't help but feel like Dad might be right. The time on the electric ticker tape is barely noon. I've been gone for four hours. I wonder what my dad will do. The guilt of leaving him gnaws at me. There's still time to turn around and find a bus back. But if I go back, he'll never let me out of the house again.

"Hey there, pretty girl," a voice calls out behind me. I turn to see a rough-looking man in dirty jeans and a faded T-shirt looking at me with a leering grin. Each time his eyes rake over me, it sends my skin crawling with unease. The wind picks up, and I can smell that his last shower was probably months ago.

"Leave me alone." I try to keep my voice steady as I pick up the pace.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that," he sneers, following me. "You need a daddy, little girl? I'll be your daddy."

I feel my chest tighten, panic setting in. "Leave me alone," I repeat, fighting to keep my voice from quivering.

"Aw, don't be like that, baby," he coos. "I just want to get to know you. We could have some fun together."

"Get away from me!" I shout, my voice cracking in fear. People pass us, but no one seems to care that this man is bothering me. They look straight ahead, moving quickly down the street. I start to walk faster toward the avenue, but he hurries up to catch me.

"Fucking cunt," he growls. "You think you're better than me?"

He grabs me by my backpack and yanks it open. To my horror, my book falls out. But I don't have time to react as the man reaches out to grab me. I squeeze my eyes shut, regretting every moment of my foolish decision.

But the hand never reaches me. I open my eyes and see a hand grabbing my would-be assailant's wrist.

"Didn't she tell you to leave her alone?"

I turn to look at my savior and stare into the face of a handsome man in a suit. He looks a bit older than the man harassing me, with dark hair and piercing green eyes. He looks like he just stepped off a GQ cover, and I can't help staring at him.

Calm down, Maria!

"Or what?" the punk sneers, but his bravado doesn't match the doubt in his shifty eyes.

"Or I'll make you regret laying a finger on her," the handsome man threatens, stepping between us.

His tall frame towers over the man and I instinctively move behind him, catching a hint of his scent—something light and airy instead of the choking body spray of high school boys. It's so subtle that it makes me want to lean in and discern the subtle texture of it all.

There's a familiar tone in his voice, and it takes a moment before I realize that it's the same tone my father had when he pulled me away from Trevor. Suddenly a chill seizes me, and I wonder if what I saw earlier is about to play out again.

The punk's gaze darts from the handsome man to me as he weighs his options. With a curse, he wrenches his wrist free and steps back.

"You're not worth it, you stuck-up bitch," he mutters, shooting me a venomous glare before he slinks away.

"Is this your book?" the handsome man bends down, picks up the copy of What Great Paintings Say effortlessly despite its weight, and asks. There is concern in his green eyes but also admiration as he casually thumbs the edges of the book. His sudden appearance is a relief, and I'm grateful but also bewildered.

"Y-yes, thank you," I stammer, trying to catch my breath.

"It's one of my favorites." He smiles. "You have good taste."

Oh my God, it's like he knows all the right things to say!If I thought he was handsome before, he's downright gorgeous now.

"Thanks," I say as he gives it back to me.

The handsome man watches with amusement in his eyes as I try and stuff the book back into my backpack. I finally manage to wrangle the damn thing inside, but I can't zip up my bag.

"I ... I just ... I should get going." I say it, but my feet don't move.

"Where are you headed?" His green eyes—lit up by the million lights of Times Square like a pair of perfectly cut emeralds—compel me to look back at him, and I can't help staring.

I bite my lip, unsure if I should accept his help. But not wanting to be accosted by another crazed weirdo, what choice do I have? I show him the card with Mercy's address, and his brow furrows for a moment as he looks at it.

"It's not too far from here," he says. "But are you sure it's the right address?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, I happen to be familiar with that place," he replies. "It's a bar."

"Well, my cousin says she lives there." I blink stupidly. "Can you point me in the right direction?"

He looks at me, and for a moment, I imagine him telling me that he'll walk me there. But instead, he disappoints me and simply points to our right.

"Go north two blocks," he says. "And make a left."

"Thanks," I mutter. "What's your name?"

"Mikhail," he replies. "Mikhail Ivanov."

"Maria," I reply and extend my hand to him. "Maria Rostova."

"Nice meeting you, Maria Rostova," Mikhail smiles. "Perhaps I'll see you soon."

Without another word, he turns and walks away. I resist the urge to call out to his retreating figure.

"Come on, Maria," I whisper to myself. "Get a hold of yourself."

I begin walking north like he told me to, still trying to wrangle my book into place. And as the lights of Times Square dance all around me, I notice something poking up from the pages of my book. Stopping at a crosswalk, I pull it out.

It's a card that says "Chrysanthea" on it. When I turn it over, there's an address and Mikhail's name. But it's neither of those things that send my heart skipping a beat.

It's the words on the other side.

Owner. Contemporary Art Gallery.