Chapter 22
1600words
"Definitely synthetic," I announced, looking up from the microscope. "The blue pigment contains chemical compounds that didn't exist until the 1950s."
Felix leaned against the workbench beside me, close enough that I could feel his body heat but not quite touching. "Can you document it conclusively?"
"Already have." I gestured to the computer screen displaying spectroscopic analysis results. "No Renaissance artist had access to these compounds. This is modern paint artificially aged to appear authentic."
"Excellent work." His approval shouldn't have pleased me as much as it did.
I removed my latex gloves with a snap. "The question is, what do we do with this evidence?"
"That depends on what our ultimate goal is." Felix's eyes met mine. "What exactly are you hoping to accomplish, Lyra?"
The directness of the question caught me off guard. Since our night together, we'd maintained a careful dance around personal topics, focusing instead on the investigation.
"Justice," I said finally. "Accountability."
"For the art fraud? Or for something else?"
My pulse quickened. We were approaching dangerous territory—the truth I hadn't yet shared with him despite our growing intimacy.
"Why don't we discuss it over dinner?" I suggested, deflecting. "I'm starving, and these results aren't going anywhere."
Felix studied me for a moment, then nodded. "My place? I can cook."
The domestic simplicity of the offer contrasted sharply with the complexity of our situation. "You cook?"
A smile tugged at his lips. "Don't sound so surprised. I do have some skills outside the boardroom and bedroom."
Heat rushed to my cheeks at the casual reference to our night together. Felix noticed, his smile widening slightly.
"Seven o'clock?" he asked.
"I'll bring wine."
---
Felix's penthouse looked different in the evening light—warmer, more intimate. Classical music played softly in the background as he moved around the kitchen with unexpected grace, chopping vegetables and seasoning fish.
I sipped my wine, watching him from a barstool at the kitchen island. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"Italy. I spent a year there after college, working at a small restoration studio in Florence." He glanced up from the cutting board. "Before joining the family business."
"You were a restorer?" This was new information—a glimpse of the man he might have been without the Blackwood name and responsibilities.
"Amateur at best." He shrugged, but I caught the wistfulness in his expression. "My father had other plans for me."
"And you just accepted that?"
Felix's knife paused mid-chop. "At the time, yes. Family duty is... ingrained in the Blackwood psyche."
"But not Alexander's, apparently."
"Alexander embraces the privileges of the Blackwood name without the responsibilities." Felix resumed chopping, his movements more forceful. "He's always been selective about which family traditions to honor."
I sensed old wounds beneath his words. "You two weren't always at odds?"
"Once, we were close." Felix transferred the vegetables to a sizzling pan. "Cousins, but raised almost as brothers after his parents died."
"What changed?"
Felix was quiet for a moment, focused on stirring the pan. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped lower. "He betrayed someone I cared about. Used her, then discarded her when she became inconvenient."
My heart stuttered. Was he talking about me? In my previous life?
"What happened to her?" I asked carefully.
"She died." Felix's expression darkened. "Suicide, officially. But I always wondered..."
The implication hung in the air between us. I set down my wine glass with unsteady fingers.
"When was this?"
"Five years ago." Felix looked up, meeting my eyes. "Her name was Emma. She was an art history student interning at the foundation."
Not me, then. But the parallels were chilling.
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
Felix nodded once, acknowledging my sympathy without inviting further discussion. He turned his attention back to the cooking, and I didn't press. The revelation added new layers to his motivation for helping me—this wasn't just about art fraud or family rivalry. It was personal for him too.
Dinner was served on the terrace, the Boston skyline providing a glittering backdrop. The food was excellent—sea bass with roasted vegetables and a lemon sauce that balanced perfectly between tart and savory.
"This is amazing," I said after my first bite. "Seriously, you missed your calling."
Felix smiled, the tension from our earlier conversation easing. "High praise from someone who subsists primarily on takeout and coffee."
"Hey! I cook." At his skeptical look, I amended, "Occasionally."
Conversation flowed easily as we ate, skimming across safe topics—art restoration techniques, museum politics, the foundation's upcoming exhibitions. It felt strangely normal, as if we were just a man and woman enjoying dinner together, not conspirators plotting against his cousin and my former fiancé.
As Felix poured the last of the wine, his expression grew serious again. "You never answered my question earlier. About what you're hoping to accomplish."
I set down my fork, appetite suddenly diminished. The moment had come—I couldn't deflect forever, not if I wanted his continued help. Not after what we'd shared.
"I need to tell you something," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Something that will sound impossible."
Felix leaned back in his chair, his full attention on me. "I'm listening."
I took a deep breath. "You've been having dreams about me drowning. About trying to save me and failing."
"Yes." His expression revealed nothing.
"They're not dreams, Felix. They're memories."
A flicker of something—confusion, disbelief, hope?—crossed his face. "That's not possible."
"Neither is dreaming about someone you've never met." I held his gaze. "Yet here we are."
Felix was silent for a long moment, processing. "You're saying what I see in my dreams... actually happened?"
"Will happen. Would have happened." I struggled to explain. "Three years from now, I was engaged to Alexander. I was pregnant with his child. At a party on his yacht, I discovered him with Vivienne. There was an argument, and she..." My voice faltered.
"Pushed you overboard," Felix finished, his face pale. "And I jumped in after you."
"Yes."
"But I couldn't reach you in time."
"No." The memory of water filling my lungs made me shudder. "I drowned. I died, Felix. And then I woke up three years earlier—in this timeline—with a chance to change everything."
Felix stood abruptly, pacing the length of the terrace. His reaction was understandable; I was asking him to believe something that defied all logic.
"That's why you approached the foundation," he said finally. "Why you're so focused on exposing Alexander and Vivienne. This isn't just about art fraud for you."
"No," I admitted. "It's about justice. For myself and my unborn child."
Felix stopped pacing, turning to face me. "Why tell me this now?"
"Because you deserve the truth. Because I'm tired of carrying this alone." I stood, moving toward him. "And because whatever is happening between us... it started before we ever met in this timeline."
He studied my face, searching for deception or delusion and finding neither. "That night on the yacht—in my dreams—when our eyes met as you were sinking... I felt like I knew you. Like I'd failed someone precious to me."
"You tried to save me," I said softly. "That's more than Alexander did."
Felix closed the distance between us, his hands coming up to frame my face. "I believe you."
Three simple words, yet they nearly undid me. After carrying this impossible truth alone for so long, being believed—being seen—felt like a weight lifting from my chest.
"How can you?" I whispered. "It sounds insane."
"Because it explains everything. The dreams. The connection I felt the moment I saw you." His thumbs brushed my cheekbones gently. "The sense that I've been waiting for you without knowing I was waiting."
I leaned into his touch, overwhelmed by the acceptance I found there. "I didn't plan for this—for us. You were supposed to be a means to an end. A way to get to Alexander and Vivienne."
"And now?" His voice was low, intimate.
"Now I don't know what you are to me," I admitted. "Except that you're the only person in this world who knows the truth. The only one who remembers."
Felix's eyes darkened. "Not the only one, perhaps."
I pulled back slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Something Rousseau said when he visited the foundation. About recognizing you." Felix's expression grew troubled. "What if he remembers too? What if Vivienne does?"
The possibility sent ice through my veins. "That's not possible. Is it?"
"A week ago, I would have said none of this is possible." Felix's hands slid from my face to my shoulders, steadying. "But if I can remember across timelines, why not others?"
The implications were staggering. If Vivienne retained even subconscious memories of pushing me to my death, she might recognize me as a threat on an instinctual level. It would explain her immediate hostility, her territorial behavior around Alexander.
"We need to be more careful," I said, mind racing. "If they suspect—"
"They won't." Felix's grip tightened reassuringly. "We have an advantage they don't—we know what happened. What will happen."
"Unless we change it." I looked up at him, suddenly certain. "That's why I'm here, Felix. Not just for revenge, but to rewrite the ending."
His eyes held mine, something profound passing between us—understanding, commitment, and something deeper neither of us was ready to name.
"Then let's rewrite it together," he said.
