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Bella

A loud banging sound pulls me from the deep confines of sleep. I sit up slowly in bed, trying to figure out the source through the haze in my head. I don’t remember where I am at first, and then the scratchy wool of the blanket helps me focus.

My father’s cabin. The guest room.

Another sound reaches me—footsteps, maybe? —and I jump out of bed.

Something’s wrong. Someone is in the house.

I grab my jacket and pull it over my silk nightgown, heading toward the door. As an afterthought, I grab the heavy flashlight on the nightstand, my hand shaking slightly as I hold it over my head.

Better this than nothing.

I swallow hard and push open the bedroom door, then tiptoe down the dimly lit hallway to the living room, my heart pounding loudly in my chest. I look around the little cozy cabin that used to be my father’s home. Everything looks intact—the wrapped artwork in the corner, the half-packed boxes, even the leftover slice of pizza from dinner just a few hours ago. Nothing seems out of place.

Did I imagine the noise?

Maybe the exhaustion of the last few days is finally messing with my head. I shouldn’t have taken those sleeping pills I found in Dad’s medicine cabinet, but it seemed like the only way to get some sleep and escape the crushing grief that is slowly eating me up.

I let out a soft sigh and start to turn around, but something catches my attention. The large landscape painting by the fireplace is hanging at an awkward angle, and what seems to be a streak of light is streaming out from the wall behind.

Are the pills really causing me to hallucinate?

Slowly, I make my way toward the painting, gripping the flashlight tighter with every step. As I reach it, I reach out to press my free hand against the wall behind, gasping in shock when it suddenly gives way. I enter the room beyond, forcing one leg in front of the other, and then stand in the middle of the room, staring in shock at the scattered paintings, overturned paint tubes, and ransacked drawers.

It wasn’t a hallucination. Someone was in here, and they left in a hurry.

How did an invader know about a private studio in my father’s house that I didn’t even know existed?

Maybe if you came home more often you would have known about it, my subconscious whispers.

And if you came home enough, you might have also noticed your father’s suicidal tendencies.

My heart clenches painfully with guilt and regret. But those feelings are useless now. I’m the most terrible daughter in the world.

I walk over to the stool in the corner, fighting back tears as I trace my hand over the wooden easel in front of it. I try to imagine my dad sitting on the stool, his heavy brows knitted in an adorable frown, hands moving smoothly over the canvas.

He was the best artist I know. And that’s why he was so damn successful.

My eyes fall on an old leather journal on the desk. As I pick it up, something falls out of it. I bend over to retrieve it from the floor—it’s a luxurious-looking access card with a bold inscription in gold: The Chapel.

The Chapel? What is that?

Without any kind of religious symbolism on the card, my best guess is that it’s some kind of exclusive club.

I turn the card around with a frown, but there’s nothing on the back. I glance down at the opened page of the journal, and right there in my father’s sprawling handwriting is written:

Chapel. Must be there. 08-22. 10pm.

And on the bottom right side of the page is an address that looks like it was scribbled in a rush.

Wheels start to turn in my head. I had my suspicions about my dad suddenly committing suicide, but there’s been no solid evidence to prove otherwise. With the break-in tonight, and this strange access card, maybe I can find a clue.

08-22. That’s tonight. I still have time.

Without a second thought, I rush out of the secret studio into the living room, quickly pulling the wall back into place. Then I hurry to my room, grab the first dress I find in the closet, and change quickly. Soon, I’m driving down the long dusty road in my father’s old Mustang.

The drive is longer than I anticipated, and just when I start to think the GPS might be broken, a luxurious black BMW zooms past me, quickly taking a right turn and disappearing into a dark parking lot. I follow the car, and I’m shocked to see a huge, desolate building. It appears so suddenly through the darkness that the reveal was almost a shock.

What is this place?

Though the stone chapel is old and covered in vines, the parking lot is filled with brand-new, expensive-looking cars that glint in the sparse light from the streetlamps. My truck sticks out like a sore thumb.

Quickly, I turn off the ignition and grab the access card from the glove compartment, then step out of the truck. I walk over to the entrance just in time to see a suited man with dark hair step up to the huge, stern-faced security guard. I step up behind him, my heart thrumming like crazy in my chest as my eyes fall on the poorly concealed gun in the security guard’s waistband. He checks the dark-haired man’s access card and motions him in with a curt salute, and then his eyes fall on me.

“Evening, ma’am.”

“G-good evening,” I squeak, then clear my throat awkwardly. I raise my chin, trying to mimic the dark-haired man’s confidence as I hold out my access card to the guard. “I have this.”

The guard must see through my ruse, because his eyes narrow suspiciously. “What is your business here?” he asks coldly, his hand resting menacingly on the gun at his waist.

My eyes widen at the dark threat in his eyes. I swallow hard, desperately racking my brain for anything to say that will get me in the door. My palms have gone sweaty, my stomach tightening with dread.

“She’s with me,” comes a deep, rich voice. The dark-haired man in front of me has turned slightly to rescue me, pausing as if he’s giving me time to catch up to him. I look up, my gaze clashing with the alluring grey eyes of the most striking man I’ve ever seen. And it seems for a moment that I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Okay, sir,” the guard says, his features relaxing as he returns his attention to me. “You can go in, ma’am.”

I nod speechlessly, urging my legs to move. My whole body is shaking, my legs threatening to give way beneath me.

That could have gone horribly. I don’t know what this place is, but it’s clear their security is no joke. I could have died.

My savior gazes at me for a moment, his expression unchanging. Then he simply nods his head and turns to enter the building ahead of me. There’s no way I can catch up to his long, confident strides, and by the time I enter the building, he’s nowhere to be found. Ignoring my disappointment, I look around the long corridor with rows of doors on each side, wondering which way to go.

Suddenly, one of the doors is pushed open and a stocky bald-headed man walks out, heading straight for me.

“What the fuck are you doing standing around out here?” he thunders with an angry sneer. “The auction will be starting any minute now.”

“W-what?” I mutter, blinking at him blankly.

“Aren’t you the auctioneer for the VIP section?”

Auction? Is that what they do here? Was Dad coming here to procure a particular piece of art?

Only one way to find out.

“Uhm…yes,” I say, nodding at the man. “Yes, I am.”

What the hell are you doing, Bella?

“Come with me,” the man snaps irritably, already walking down the long hallway.

I follow after him and he leads me to one of the doors in the corridor and turns to face me. “There’re important people in there tonight,” he says, the threat in his voice unveiled. “Fuck this up and you’re dead meat.”

My heart drops to my stomach at his words. I can tell he isn’t bluffing. He’d really kill me if I mess up whatever business is going on behind that door.

Swallowing nervously, I nod at him. “I promise to do a good job.”

Something akin to suspicion crosses his eyes, but he grits his teeth and pushes open the door. I walk in, clenching my fist against the urge to turn around and get the hell out of here. The door closes behind me, and I’m faced by a number of serious-looking men in suits. They are all comfortably seated on plush couches with sturdy wooden tables in front of them and glasses of some sparkling liquid.

I scan the room, and my gaze falls on a familiar broad-shouldered figure. It’s my dark-haired savior from earlier. My heart skips with a nervous excitement at the sight of him, though I don’t understand why. He spreads his long legs out in front of him in a nonchalant manner, his firm lips tilted slightly as he takes a sip of his drink. Suddenly, he raises his head and our gazes clash.

And in that moment, it seems like the world stops and all I can see is him. I feel a flush rising to my cheeks, but then something crosses his eyes, a dark emotion that quickly disappears as another man rises to his feet and joins me on the stage, shooting me a confused look.

It seems the event is about to begin.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the man on stage says smoothly, his deep voice ringing authoritatively in the room. “I’m Lucian Devereaux, your host for this fine evening. I welcome you all to another gathering where you will be able to bid on some of the most sought-after pieces of art in the world…and some the most expensive!” He winks and the audience chuckles.

“Now, I’ll leave the rest of the evening in the capable hands of our lovely auctioneer,” he drawls, gesturing to me with a strong arm. His lips curl slightly in a knowing smirk as he lowers himself back into his seat. He clearly doesn’t recognize me, and knows I’m not the usual auctioneer, but he’s playing along.

Every gaze in the room turns in my direction, and it takes everything in me—including the fear of death—not to turn around and take to my heels. Instead, I send the room a wide smile and move closer to the artwork neatly arranged on a platform at the center of the room.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I greet in a strong voice that hides my fear, and I gesture to the first painting. “This is a beautiful piece. It’s called ‘The Musicians.’” I don’t even need to read the title at the edge. At least my three years toward an Art History degree might help me out here. “It’s one of Caravaggio’s first paintings in the late sixteenth century…”

I know this piece—it was stolen years ago, and has long been thought to be lost. If this is authentic, and it seems like it is, then I understand why this auction is taking place at night and with armed guards.

Caravaggio was one of my dad’s inspirations as an artist, and he used to tell me stories about each of his paintings, so it’s easy for me to paint a fine story about the piece, talking it up a bit before starting the auction.

“If you want to own this beautiful piece of art, the bidding starts at…” I pause to read the price stuck at the base of the frame. “…Seven million dollars,” I call out.

Bidding starts to roll in, and I follow along as well as I can, amazed at how much people will spend to own a painting. I watch them, trying to imagine my dad among these people, in one of these plush chairs with one of those sparkling drinks in his hand.

The picture just doesn’t fit. He wasn’t a very social man, so if he was planning on coming to a gathering like this, it must have been for a very important reason.

“Ten million!” a voice calls out, cutting sharply into my thoughts.

“Twelve!” someone else counters almost immediately.

I wait for a beat, and when it seems like no one is going to go higher I slam the gavel against the block. “Sold!”

I smile out into the room as I shift the painting to the other side of the platform, grateful for the auction videos I’ve binge-watched on YouTube over the years.

Aside from being definitely illegal, this isn’t so bad.

My gaze keeps returning to my dark-haired savior, no matter how hard I try to look away. His steady and direct gaze gives me the courage I need to keep going.

I sell another painting, and I’m on the third one when a cruel-looking old man with a white scruffy beard and a sly gaze clears his throat loudly, interrupting my pitch. “How much do I pay to own you!”

I freeze, unsure of how to respond. Surely he’s joking, right?

Against my will, my gaze goes straight to him, my dark-haired savior, hoping for another miraculous rescue. But his expression is unreadable, and there’s an undeniable steeliness in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine.

I swallow nervously and glance around the room, my heart dropping to my stomach at the expressions of sick excitement on the faces in the audience. They’re not laughing—they’re looking to the director of the auction for a real answer, as if there’s even a possibility…

Oh, dear. What have you gotten yourself into, Bella?