Page 33

THIRTY-THREE

Reckoning

Vivianne

Paul steps closer, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Because sometimes, to stop dangerous things from falling into the wrong hands, you must get close to the people holding them.”

His lips quirk into a teasing smile as he leans in just a little, his breath warm against my skin. “You are familiar with the phrase, ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief ?’” His voice drops lower, teasing, playful.

“Of course.” My pulse quickens, but I can’t tear my gaze away from him.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he murmurs, his words dripping with both mystery and challenge. “Stepping into the shadows with the thieves… To stop the worst of them.”

His hand lingers at the side of my face, his eyes dark and intense. I want to ask more—about his role, about Larson, about what happens next—but the weight of everything he’s revealed presses down on me, making it hard to think straight.

My mind whirls, grasping for something solid, something simpler to focus on. I need a moment to breathe, to process. My eyes land on The Lovers , and a spark of curiosity flickers through the chaos.

I clear my throat, trying to ground myself in something tangible. I gesture toward The Lovers , my voice steadier than I feel.

“Do you mind? May I take a look?”

“Of course. This is a special painting for me.”

“How is that?” I turn, surprised by his comment.

“It brought us together.”

“You painted the copy at the Met.” It isn’t a question, more a statement of fact, but there’s something I still need to know. “Why did you do that if you had the original?”

Paul’s eyes darken, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Sometimes, it’s necessary to flush out a greater prize.”

His words hang in the air, their meaning sinking in like a knife. My heart stutters. A greater prize?

I know exactly what—or who—he’s talking about.

My family.

The real The Lovers painting hangs in the Faulks’ estate, and Paul’s carefully chosen words make it clear: he’s after us.

After me.

But that can’t be. He wouldn’t use me like that…Would he?

A chill races down my spine, and suddenly, the cave feels colder, the walls closing in. The flicker of attraction I’ve been fighting for Paul—the warmth, the pull—twists into something darker, more dangerous. He’s not just the man who’s set my body on fire; he’s hunting my family.

The realization hits hard, almost knocking the breath out of me. I just slept with him . My body still hums with the memory of his touch, the way he made me feel—alive, wanted, safe.

Paul would never treat me the way my father does. He would protect me, not control me, not sell me off like a possession to be bartered.

But this—this is different.

Given a chance, I would choose Paul over my family and the life I’m trapped in. But now, the man I just gave myself to, the one I trusted in ways I’ve never trusted anyone else…He’s using me, too?

My heart twists painfully at the thought. Paul isn’t like my father. I want to believe that. I need to believe that. He wouldn’t betray. He says he wants to protect me, but how much of what we shared is real if this is about The Lovers and my family?

How much is a lie?

I bite down hard on my lip, battling the confusion, the betrayal, and the undeniable pull I still feel toward him. I want to trust him. I want to choose him.

He makes me feel something my father never could—free. But now, standing here, the cave walls seeming to close in, I don’t know what’s real anymore.

As for my loyalty to my family, my father’s control, his lies, and the way he sold me off into marriage like I was nothing more than property—destroyed any lingering ties I have to the Faulks name.

But still…He’s my blood.

And Paul?

I don’t know what to think anymore.

The silence stretches, heavy with tension, as I fight the storm of emotions rising inside me. A part of me wants to walk away, but another part—another part wants to stay with Paul.

And that terrifies me even more.

I shake my head, forcing the spiraling thoughts back. I need to focus—focus on something tangible, something I can control. My mind latches onto the one detail that’s still within my grasp:

The Lovers .

The forgery.

Dr. Phillips was too eager to proclaim it an undiscovered authentic Van Gogh and nearly everyone in attendance had been too willing to believe him.

“What if I hadn’t been there? If I hadn’t exposed that version as a forgery?” The question slips out, and it’s a real one—because what if I hadn’t? How far would the lie have gone?

Paul’s eyes darken, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with a slow exhale, he steps closer, his hand brushing lightly against my arm. “If you hadn’t exposed it, someone else would’ve eventually figured it out. Maybe. But not soon enough.”

He pauses, and there’s a flicker of something more behind his gaze—admiration, perhaps? Or regret? “You were sharp. You saw what no one else was willing to admit. The world was too dazzled by the idea of finding a lost Van Gogh. They wanted to believe it. You made them face the truth.”

I search his face, trying to gauge his sincerity, the tension still thick between us. “But why the forgery in the first place? Why set this whole thing up?”

Paul’s lips quirk, just slightly. “Sometimes revealing the fake is the only way to flush out what’s real. What if I told you The Lovers was just the beginning?”

“I don’t know what I’d think.” I turn my attention back to the painting. “Do you mind?” I itch to examine this copy of The Lovers .

“Please.” He sweeps his arm toward the painting, inviting me to an up close and personal view of a magnificent piece of art.

Standing this close to the painting without my white linen gloves, I feel a bit naked. Which, considering I’m literally wrapped in nothing but a sheet, is ironic at best. Years of training drilled into me the importance of handling art with the utmost care, gloves always on, no exceptions.

Yet here I am, more concerned about not touching the painting than the fact that I’m actually damn-near naked in front of it.

Although seemingly innocuous, the oils from my fingertips can destroy a painting over the years and centuries, and every work of art deserves a long, healthy life. Generations to come should be able to enjoy the same pristine swirls and swoops of a great master’s brush as I do now.

As I peer close, the canvas sweeps me into another realm. A breeze tickles my cheek. Leaves rustle in the wind. The sweet aroma of springtime floods my senses, and the whispering of lovers drifts to my ear.

As it always does, the painting takes my breath away.

It has a magical quality to it. One of Van Gogh’s lost works of art, painted near the end of his life, it has all the majesty of the other works combined.

I step back to admire the frantic sweep of his incredible imagination. The vivid colors leap off the canvas, taking on a life of their own.

The only evidence of this painting’s existence is a rough brown sketch—a ghost compared to the real thing. That sketch is drab and uninspiring, barely hinting at the work to come.

But this? It’s indescribable. And, if I didn’t know better, it could be the original.

Falling back on the rigid routine taught by my mentor, I force myself to approach the painting—not with my heart and emotions, but with the practiced eye of an expert.

It’s perfect.

Beyond perfect.

It is an impeccable copy; it renders me speechless. There are no flaws.

Each brushstroke is exactly as I remember. The tiny whorls in the lower left corner are the same. It even has some of the blemishes—the scorch marks and smudges.

How is that possible?

Unless this forgery was made before the painting left France? If that’s the case, there’s no way Paul painted it.

If it isn’t a forgery…

I need more time with the canvas.

“Amazing,” I say.

“It’s incredible,” he replies.

“You used this to make your copy?” There are no signs of the specks I saw at the Met. This is a clean copy with the weight of a great master upon it.

“I did, but this is the original, Vivianne. It belongs to the great master himself.”

Impossible.

“Where did you study?”

“I’m mostly self-taught,” he says.

“Not possible. You had to have studied somewhere.”

He shrugs. “Call it life then. The world is my canvas.”

“Why counterfeit when your skill is nearly as good, if not better, than the most famous names in history?”

“Because art critics are too critical. They’re blind in many ways. I paint nudes for an exclusive clientele. Through that, I’ve established a name for myself in certain circles, but I don’t have classical training; therefore, I’m not good enough.”

He’s beyond good enough.

“I’d buy every one of your paintings and find homes for them.” Maybe later, I might be able to help his career blossom.

He shakes his head.

“What?” I ask.

“I see the wheels in your head turning.”

“You do?”

“I do, and the answer is no.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

“When I was younger, I thought I would take the art world by storm. I wanted to be rich and famous. I sought validation for my work. I’ve since learned several truths.”

“What are those?”

“First, I don’t need the validation of others to know I’m good. Second, it doesn’t matter what other people think. Third, my skills are helping with a great cause.”

“But—”

“I’m happy and fulfilled. I might not have been born into wealth, but somewhere along the way, I was blessed by a benefactor who became my father in every way. I have all the money I require. And as for validation? That’s hanging in the homes of those who can’t tell my paintings from the masters they believe they own. One of them is still hanging in the Musée d’Orsay.”

“Yes,” I say. “ Starry Night is one of yours.”

“I saw you looking at it. It was one of my first pieces. You called me a thief, and there was a time when I was. I got a thrill out of swapping out paintings, seeing if I would get caught. I never did.”

“Where is Starry Night now?”

His lips form into a thin line. “In a safe place. Before long, it will be back where it belongs. I don’t expect you to keep something like that a secret. It was fun, but I can’t risk you telling René Brault. We need to be clear on one thing.”

“What is that?”

“You can never divulge what you know about me or this place.” Paul’s voice is low and firm, the weight of his words sinking into the space between us.

I take in a deep breath, hesitating. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

His eyes lock onto mine, unreadable yet intense. “Then I must convince you.”

The silence that follows is thick with tension. I should call Larson right now, report everything I’ve discovered—the hidden cache, the fact that The Starry Night hangs in the museum—but I don’t move.

I can’t.

There’s a part of me, the rational part, screaming to run. Yet another part…A part much stronger than I want to admit—is considering doing exactly what Paul asks.

What would it take to convince me?

My feelings for him are already a tangled mess.

Is it lust?

Or is it something more?

His touch ignited something within me, a fire I can’t extinguish, but it’s not just about our physical connection. There’s something deeper, a pull toward him that goes beyond the heat between us. It’s in the way he moves and speaks with a passion and drive that sets him apart from anyone I’ve ever known.

There’s an undeniable brilliance to him—a modern-day Robin Hood with a twisted vision, stealing from those who hoard wealth to serve a greater purpose. The way he sees the world, how he reclaims pieces of history, preserving them in his own way—it’s dangerous, but it’s also intoxicating.

I have no loyalty to my father, not after everything he’s done.

But Paul?

He offers something entirely different—trust, passion, vision. Maybe even something more.

I swallow hard, trying to quiet the storm in my mind.

Could I ever betray him?

* * *

Paul’s eyes soften as he gestures toward the bed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “It’s getting late. Anthony is probably wondering where we got to. We should get you dressed and head upstairs.”

I glance around at the stacks of shelves and the hundreds of paintings scattered throughout the cave. My fingers itch to examine them, to determine how many are authentic originals, but the weight of the evening presses down on me. Exploring them will have to wait.

For now.

“I could spend a lifetime down here.” I sigh, my gaze drifting over the walls of hidden masterpieces, the allure of their untold stories pulling at me.

“I would love to offer that chance to you, Vivianne.”

The way he says my name sends a shiver through me, his voice low and intimate, like a secret shared just between us. My heart pounds in response, a steady thrum against my ribs. I feel light in my stomach, almost giddy.

It’s absurd, really—how he can do this to me with just a few words and a look. He has the strangest effect on me, like he’s unraveling me piece by piece, and I’m powerless to stop it.

“My father would never allow it,” I murmur, glancing down at the floor, my voice tinged with bitter reality.

Paul’s eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of intensity flashing in them. “Your father is irrelevant.” His words are sharp, cutting through the space between us.

I laugh, the sound hollow, though my chest tightens with familiar dread.

“You have no idea about my father.” My mind drifts back to the cold, calculating man who’s kept me tethered to his every whim, a puppet in his games.

Paul steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he tilts his head, eyes locking onto mine with a quiet certainty.

“Oh, Vivianne, that is where you are so very wrong.” His voice is softer now, almost tender, but there’s steel beneath it. “He keeps you trapped with threats and coercion, but the only power he holds over you is what you give him.”

My chest heaves on a strained and broken inhale. His words striking a nerve I didn’t realize was exposed.

Could it be that simple?

That all this time, I’ve been a prisoner of my fear, handing my father the chains to keep me bound? I feel the weight of Paul’s gaze on me, searching as though he can see the war waging inside my head.

“You don’t understand,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, my pulse pounding in my ears.

My father is a force—impossible to escape, relentless in his control. And yet…Paul stands there, calm, unwavering, as though the idea of my father holding power over me is laughable.

Paul’s lips curve into a small, knowing smile, his thumb brushing across my cheek as his other hand gently cups my face. His touch is warm, grounding me, yet making me feel like I could float away at the same time.

“I understand more than you know.”

His words hang between us, heavy with promise and something else—something that tugs at my heart. A part of me that wants to believe him, wants to break free from my father’s grasp and stay here, in this strange, dangerous world Paul has created.

And that scares me.

How can he know what I’ve been through? How can he see me so clearly when I can barely see myself?

But when I look into his eyes, the doubt wavers. There’s something about him, something solid and real.

I swallow hard, trying to steady the emotions churning inside me. He’s right about one thing—my father only has the power I give him.

Suddenly, I wonder what will happen if I stopped giving it to him.