Chapter 25
1770words
My apartment felt colder than I remembered. Emptier. I kicked off my heels with enough force to send one crashing against the wall, leaving a scuff mark I couldn't bring myself to care about.
"Damn them," I whispered to the silence. "Damn them all."
The image of Felix—his hand on Vivienne's arm, his head bent close to hers—burned behind my eyelids. I'd been a fool to trust a Blackwood. To believe he was different. To think that shared dreams and heated kisses meant loyalty.
I connected the recording device to my laptop with shaking hands, desperate to hear what it had captured. Vivienne's voice filled the room, crystal clear and venomous.
"*You know nothing about me.*"
Then the staged gasp, the false accusation, the perfectly calibrated sob. The evidence was there—proof of her manipulation—but who would believe it now? She'd destroyed my credibility with a single glass of wine.
A knock at the door froze me mid-thought.
Three sharp raps. Authoritative. Familiar.
I knew who it was before I checked the peephole. Felix Blackwood stood in my hallway, his perfect composure finally fractured. His tie hung loose around his neck, hair disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly.
I considered not answering. Considered letting him stand there until he gave up and walked away.
Instead, I yanked the door open, fury giving me strength.
"What do you want?" My voice cut like glass.
Felix stepped forward. I stepped back. A dance of approach and retreat.
"Lyra, I can explain—"
"Explain what?" I spat. "How you stood there chatting with them while Vivienne destroyed me? While she turned the entire room against me with one perfectly executed lie?"
His eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't." I held up a hand. "I saw you with them. Consoling her. Touching her arm like old friends while she paraded around in her wine-stained dress, playing the victim."
Understanding dawned on his face. "You think I was taking her side."
"Weren't you?"
Felix closed the door behind him, moving into my space with the quiet intensity that always made my pulse quicken—even now, even furious.
"I had no idea what happened until after you left," he said, voice low and urgent. "Rousseau cornered me the moment we arrived. By the time Vivienne approached us, you were already gone."
"Convenient timing," I said, arms crossed like armor across my chest.
"Strategic timing," he corrected. "They separated us deliberately. Divide and conquer."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted it with an ache that surprised me with its intensity. But trust came harder in this second life.
"Why should I believe you?"
Felix reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. "Because I was working, not betraying you."
He pressed play on an audio file. Rousseau's accented voice filled the room:
"*The Botticelli series was a special commission. Very... particular specifications. Not my usual work, but the client was most insistent about the model's features.*"
Felix's voice followed: "*Vivienne's features, you mean. In all five paintings.*"
"*She has a classical face,*" Rousseau replied smoothly. "*Renaissance proportions. Alexander appreciates the... historical resonance.*"
"*And the historical value? Eight million each seems excessive for workshop pieces.*"
A pause, then Rousseau's voice, lower: "*The value is in the transaction, not the art itself. Surely a man of your... financial acumen understands that.*"
Felix stopped the recording, eyes locked on mine. "I was getting him to admit the forgeries were deliberate. Part of a larger scheme."
My anger faltered, confusion taking its place. "What scheme?"
"Money laundering." Felix moved closer, energy radiating from him like heat. "The art isn't the point—it's the transaction. They're cleaning money through fake art sales."
The pieces clicked together in my mind—Alexander's tech company, Rousseau's gallery, Vivienne's connections. A perfect triangle of deception.
"That's why they're so desperate to discredit me," I whispered. "I'm not just exposing forgeries—I'm exposing financial crimes."
"Exactly." Felix's eyes burned with intensity. "And tonight proved how far they'll go to protect themselves."
I sank onto my couch, the magnitude of what we were facing finally hitting me. This wasn't just about revenge anymore. This was dangerous—potentially deadly—territory.
"What did Vivienne do?" Felix asked, sitting beside me, close but not touching.
I connected my recording device to the speaker, letting him hear the exchange, the staged attack, the aftermath. His face darkened with each word, jaw tightening until a muscle jumped beneath his skin.
"She's more calculating than I realized," he said when it finished. "And more desperate."
"She destroyed my professional credibility in five minutes flat." I laughed bitterly. "No one in that room will ever trust my authentication work again."
"They don't need to." Felix's hand found mine, warm and solid. "We don't need the art world's approval. We need evidence the FBI can't ignore."
His touch sent electricity up my arm, unwelcome and undeniable. I pulled away, not ready to forgive so easily.
"Why didn't you come find me? After she approached you?"
Pain flashed across his features. "I tried. By the time I realized what had happened, you were gone. I searched for twenty minutes before the bartender said he'd seen you leave in a cab."
The raw honesty in his voice chipped away at my defenses. Still, doubt lingered.
"How do I know I can trust you?" I asked, the question barely audible. "How do I know you're not playing both sides?"
Felix stood abruptly, pacing my small living room like a caged predator. "Because I've spent five years trying to bring Alexander down for what he did to Emma. Because I've dreamed of your death every night for a year. Because—"
He stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Because what?" I pressed.
His eyes met mine, something naked and vulnerable in them. "Because when I'm with you, I feel like I'm finally where I'm supposed to be. Like some cosmic wrong has been righted."
The words hung between us, too honest to dismiss, too intense to easily accept.
"Tell me about Emma," I said instead, needing to understand this piece of his past.
Felix's expression shuttered. "Not relevant."
"It is if it's driving your vendetta against Alexander."
He resumed pacing, tension radiating from his shoulders. "Emma was an intern at the foundation. Brilliant art historian. Alexander seduced her, used her to authenticate some questionable acquisitions, then discarded her when Vivienne returned from Paris."
The parallels to my story sent ice through my veins.
"She killed herself," Felix continued, voice flat with suppressed emotion. "At least, that's the official story. Jumped from her apartment balcony."
"You don't believe it," I said, not a question.
"Emma was terrified of heights. Pathologically so." His eyes met mine, dark with old grief. "And the night before she died, she called me. Said she'd found something in Alexander's files. Something about the art transactions that scared her."
My heart pounded against my ribs. "You think Vivienne—"
"I think history repeats itself," Felix cut in. "First Emma. Then you. Both women who could expose their operation, both eliminated."
The room seemed suddenly colder. I wrapped my arms around myself, processing the implications.
"Tonight wasn't just about discrediting me professionally," I realized. "It was a warning."
"Yes." Felix stopped pacing, turning to face me fully. "And it means we're getting close to something they desperately want to hide."
He crossed to where I sat, kneeling before me so our eyes were level. The gesture stripped away his usual power, making him vulnerable in a way I hadn't seen before.
"I should have been there tonight," he said, voice rough with regret. "Should have seen what she was doing. Protected you."
"I don't need protection," I replied automatically.
"No." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "But you deserve it anyway."
His hand reached for mine again, and this time I didn't pull away. His thumb traced circles on my palm, the simple touch grounding me.
"We need to change tactics," he said. "They're expecting a frontal assault now—accusations, evidence presented openly. We need to be more subtle."
"What are you suggesting?"
"The Blackwood Foundation's annual charity gala is next weekend. Alexander's office at the family estate will be accessible during the event."
I caught his meaning immediately. "You want to break in."
"Not break in. Walk in." His eyes gleamed with determination. "As my date, you'll have access to the family wing. Alexander keeps his private files there—including, I suspect, records of these transactions."
The plan was audacious. Dangerous. Possibly illegal.
"And if we're caught?"
"We won't be." His confidence was absolute. "I grew up in that house. Know every secret passage and security blind spot."
I studied his face—the intensity in his eyes, the determined set of his jaw. This man had dreamed of my death, had mourned someone he'd never met, had dedicated years to bringing down his own cousin.
"Why are you really doing this, Felix?" I asked softly. "Is it justice for Emma? Revenge against Alexander? Or something else entirely?"
He was silent for a long moment, his thumb still tracing patterns on my skin.
"It started as justice for Emma," he admitted finally. "Then it became about stopping Alexander's crimes. But now..."
"Now?"
His eyes met mine, something raw and honest in them. "Now it's about making sure he never hurts you again. In this life or any other."
The words hung between us, too powerful to dismiss, too dangerous to fully embrace.
"I'm still angry with you," I said, though the heat had faded from my voice.
"I know." He lifted my hand, pressing his lips to my knuckles in a gesture that felt both courtly and intimate. "But are you still with me?"
The question carried weight beyond our immediate plans. Beyond revenge and justice and evidence.
"Yes," I said finally. "I'm still with you."
Relief softened his features. He rose, still holding my hand, pulling me gently to my feet.
"Then we have planning to do," he said. "The gala is in nine days. By the time it's over, we'll have everything we need to destroy them."
As he spread blueprints of the Blackwood estate across my coffee table, explaining security systems and patrol patterns, I watched his face—animated with purpose, eyes bright with determination.
