Chapter 6

417words2026-01-19 04:15

I dressed mechanically, pulling on jeans and a sweater I hadn't seen in years. My apartment—my old apartment in Cambridge—felt both familiar and foreign. Books stacked on the coffee table from my graduate studies in art restoration. A half-finished mug of tea. A life interrupted and then rewound.

I picked up my damaged laptop, relieved to find it still functional despite the cracked case. Opening a new document, I began to type, creating a detailed timeline of everything I could remember about Alexander's business dealings. Dates blurred together, but certain details remained crystal clear—the Westlake merger that had seemed too good to be true, the offshore accounts I'd glimpsed on his laptop, the hushed phone calls with investors.

Next, I created a separate file for Vivienne Sinclair. In my previous life, I'd discovered her connection to an art smuggling operation too late. This time, I would be watching from the beginning.

My phone rang again. This time I answered.

"Lyra? Are you all right?" Professor Harlow's concerned voice filled my ear. "You missed the department meeting."

I cleared my throat, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "I'm sorry, Professor. I wasn't feeling well this morning."

"Well, I hope you're better now. I wanted to remind you about the Blackwood Foundation fellowship. The deadline is next week."

My heart stopped. "The... Blackwood Foundation?"

"Yes. It's quite prestigious—fully funded research position for promising conservators. I've already mentioned your name to the committee chair." She paused. "Felix Blackwood is particularly interested in your work on pigment authentication."

Felix. The man who had tried to save me. The man whose desperate face had been my last sight before darkness claimed me.

"I'll think about it," I managed to say, my mouth suddenly dry.

After hanging up, I researched the Blackwood Foundation with shaking hands. Founded by Felix Blackwood, the organization funded art conservation projects and authentication research—a perfect fit for my expertise. And a perfect way to access the Blackwood family.

I pulled up the foundation's website. There he was—Felix Blackwood, looking more serious than I remembered, in a charcoal suit against a neutral background. His eyes held the same intensity that had unnerved me on the yacht.

This was it. My way in.

I wiped away the last traces of tears from my face, a new resolve hardening within me. The grief for what I'd lost—for Alexander, for our baby, for the life I'd thought was mine—would always be there. But now it would fuel something else.

My revenge.