Chapter 12
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I'd spent hours researching Claude Rousseau, discovering connections to several high-profile art fraud cases that had been quietly settled out of court. In each case, the buyers were wealthy, status-conscious, and romantically involved with beautiful women who had introduced them to Rousseau.
A pattern emerged: Vivienne wasn't just Alexander's ex-lover. She was Rousseau's accomplice, targeting wealthy men with more money than art expertise.
I was so absorbed in my research that I almost missed the text message:
"Looking forward to tomorrow. Dress code: black tie. - F"
I stared at my phone, suddenly realizing I had nothing suitable to wear to a black-tie charity auction. In my previous life, Alexander had filled my closet with designer gowns. In this timeline, I was a graduate student living on scholarships and part-time work.
I called the only person who could help.
"Mia? I need a favor. A big one."
Two hours later, my roommate from undergrad arrived with three garment bags and a determined expression.
"When you said 'emergency,' I thought someone died," Mia said, hanging the bags on my bedroom door. "Not that you needed to seduce Boston's most eligible bachelor."
"It's not like that," I protested. "This is professional."
Mia rolled her eyes. "Sure. That's why you need to borrow my sample-sale Valentino."
She unzipped the first bag, revealing a crimson gown with a neckline that plunged dangerously low.
"Absolutely not," I said.
The second bag contained a silver sequined number that would have been perfect for a nightclub, not a museum fundraiser.
"Try this one," Mia said, unzipping the third bag.
The dress inside took my breath away—deep emerald silk that would bring out the green in my eyes, cut in a classic silhouette that managed to be both elegant and daring.
"It's perfect," I whispered, running my fingers over the fabric.
"It's on loan from the fashion department," Mia warned. "Return it without wine stains or I'll be expelled from grad school."
As she helped me try it on, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The woman staring back looked nothing like the broken, grieving Lyra who had woken up three days ago. This woman looked dangerous.
"Whoever he is," Mia said, adjusting the drape of the skirt, "make him suffer."
If only she knew.
