Page 46

Vivianne

If this is only one event of its kind, the sheer volume of stolen art brokered across the globe has my mind spinning. I’ve studied the facts and the cold economics behind this multibillion-dollar black market, but nothing could prepare me for seeing it firsthand.

The opulence, the elegance of it all, hides a dark underbelly. Every whispered conversation, every nod across the room, signifies deals that will never be written down, transactions that will stay forever in the shadows.

As I explained to Annabelle, most of these pieces are likely forgeries, imitations meant to deceive. Few have a provenance worth trusting, and even those could easily be fabricated.

Skepticism is a virtue in this place. But the pieces in the main auction—those are beautiful, even if questionable.

What I saw in the boat house, though, makes me question the kind of wealth that allows someone to buy such treasures purely on instinct, without the benefit of technical analysis or expert opinion.

Maybe Paul is right.

As powerful as the Faulks name is, in this circle, we are small fish in an ocean of sharks.

Paul and I step outside, following the flow of people. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, eyes darting into the shadows, his posture tense. His behavior—so different from his usual calm composure—makes my stomach clench with unease.

I lean in close, keeping my voice low. “What’s wrong?”

He lets out a long breath, the exhale rough and forced, then flashes me a tight smile. It’s too polished, too practiced to be real.

“Nothing, ma chère ,” he says, his tone gentle, but his eyes tell a different story. “Perhaps I’m just uneasy.”

“Why?”

He glances around us before he takes my hand, leading me off to the side, away from prying eyes. He presses me gently against the wall, caging me in with his body. He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear.

“Smile, my Vivianne. We’re just lovers stealing a moment.”

I force a smile, trying to relax into the role. “Okay.”

He whispers against my skin, spilling secrets and terrifying truths into my ear. His lips press against my neck, and I have to fight the urge to flinch as he kisses me, the intimate gesture meant to disguise the tension between us.

My heart pounds faster, the weight of what he says making the evening twist into something dark, something dangerous.

When he finally pulls back, I grip his arms, my eyes wide.

“It’s true?” I manage, my voice barely more than a breath.

Terrorists. Weapons deals. I knew this event was illicit, that we were stepping into a dangerous world, but I thought it was all about money and art.

I never imagined the stakes were this high. The idea of a masterpiece being used as a mule for something far deadlier—it’s unimaginable.

“You think?—”

He presses a finger against my lips, shaking his head. “We don’t speak of such things.”

His gaze shifts upward, and I follow it to the small black dome of a security camera. Of course. He couldn’t say it aloud.

Everything is monitored and recorded.

“What do you want me to do?” I whisper, my pulse racing, adrenaline turning my blood to fire.

Paul leans down, capturing my lips with his, a kiss that’s firm and lingering, as if he wants to keep me silent just a bit longer. I understand.

No words—nothing that can be traced.

“I want you,” Paul says, his voice a low rumble as he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. “Let’s enjoy the evening. We’ll do what we came here to do.”

I force a smile, though my heart still pounds in my chest. “That sounds wonderful.” I pull him closer, needing more of the reassurance only his touch can bring.

He kisses me again, deeper this time, and for a moment, the fear fades. It’s just us—just Paul and me.

He nuzzles my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe, sending shivers down my spine.

“Stay close,” he whispers as he pulls away, his arm wrapping protectively around my waist as we return to the main building. “I don’t trust this crowd.”

I have no intention of leaving his side.

We step back into the opulence of the main hall, and I try to shake off the lingering tension. One by one, the pieces are brought onstage, each a masterpiece—or, at least, a convincing imitation.

Descriptions are read, their supposed authenticity verified, though the whole room knows the truth. Authenticity is a fantasy here, a mere illusion.

Paul is right. The bidding may be silent, but it’s anything but secret.

The players watch each other as much as the art, every nod, every raised hand, a signal, a power play.

Paul’s fingers tighten around his phone, his thumb brushing over the screen as he pretends to consider each bid. His eyes flick to the crowd, assessing, calculating. He bids and then relents, letting the pieces go, a carefully orchestrated dance of interest and indifference.

His phone vibrates in his hand, and his demeanor shifts, his body tensing. He turns to me, his eyes narrowing.

“It’s time.”

I glance around, realizing for the first time that Urakov and his entourage are no longer in sight. The woman I spoke to about Dr. Gachet is gone as well. Paul tugs me away from the crowd, leading me to the back of the room. We slip through a side door, the cold night air hitting my skin like a shock.

“Come,” he urges, his voice low and urgent.

We hurry down the dock, moving from one pool of lamplight to the next. The water below is dark, the surface barely rippling in the stillness.

The moon hasn’t risen yet, and the darkness feels thick and oppressive. The only sounds are our footsteps and the soft lap of water against the stone.

Paul raps on a door, his phone ready for the doorman to scan. The door opens just enough for us to slip inside, and Paul wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning the room.

The boat house is dim, the only light coming from overhead fixtures that cast a warm glow over the art.

It’s quieter here, the conversations hushed, the crowd smaller, more subdued. These are the real players—the ones who know the stakes, who know what’s really being bought and sold tonight.

The first piece goes up for auction, a bold abstract that makes my head swim with its jagged lines and dark colors. I feel a wave of dizziness, my throat dry. I touch Paul’s shoulder, my voice barely a whisper.

“I’m going to get some water.”

His eyes flick to me, concern darkening his gaze. “I’ll come with you.”

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No, it’s fine. I’ll be right there.” I point to the bar at the back of the room. “You can watch me the whole time.”

He hesitates, then nods, his lips quirking in a small smile. “How can I say no to that?”

I turn, making my way to the bar, feeling his eyes on me. The bartender looks up, his hands pausing over a stack of glasses as I approach.

“ Mademoiselle ?”

“ De l’eau, s’il vous pla?t. ” My French is awkward and stilted.

He smiles, nodding as he reaches for a bottle. “ Mais, oui .”

He pauses, then pulls a small slip of paper from behind the bar, his eyes flicking to mine. “ Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle. This was left for Monsieur de Gaulle. Would you deliver it?”

I take the note, curiosity piqued. “Of course.”

I glance back at Paul, but his attention is on the crowd, his expression focused, intense. He doesn’t need the distraction of my errand. I turn back to the bartender.

“Where’s the powder room?”

He points down the hall, past the entrance. “Second door on the right.”

I nod my thanks, slipping away from the main room. The hallway is long, the lighting dim, and shadows seem to deepen with each step. I move from one pool of light to the next, the darkness pressing in between, a chill running down my spine.

How long is this hallway?

The shadows stretch further, the darkness growing more oppressive.

The hairs on my neck stand on end, a prickling sense of unease settling over me. I’m almost at the end, but the hallway continues, taking a sharp turn past the women’s restroom.

I pause, my hand hovering over the door handle. Should I turn back? Go back to Paul?

I shake my head, trying to dispel the creeping anxiety. Don’t be ridiculous.

I push the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the silence. And then?—

Rough fabric is thrown over my head, plunging me into darkness.

I gasp, the sound muffled by the thick material. The bottle slips from my grasp, shattering on the floor, the note fluttering away.

Before I can react, strong hands grab me, pinning my arms to my sides, crushing me in a vise-like grip.

No. No, no, no.

I thrash, trying to twist free, but there are too many of them. My feet leave the ground, and panic floods my system, my pulse hammering in my ears.

I open my mouth to scream, but a hand forces something against my face, shoving fabric between my teeth. The makeshift gag tastes bitter, chemical, and the acrid scent burns my nostrils, making my eyes water.

Paul, help me. Paul

The thought is frantic and desperate, but he’s too far away. He can’t see me. He can’t hear me.

I try to hold my breath, to fight the gas invading my senses, but it’s impossible. Each breath pulls it deeper into my lungs, and my limbs grow heavy, my thoughts turning sluggish.

No, no… I have to stay awake. I have to fight.

The darkness closes in, not just around me but inside me, spreading like ink through water, clouding my mind.

My body goes limp, my consciousness slipping away. The last thing I’m aware of is being lifted and carried away.

To Be Continued…

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