Chapter 26
2610words
I dropped my hand from the sapphire necklace that concealed our miniature camera. "Sorry. Pre-heist nerves."
"It's not a heist if I have keys to the house," he replied, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"Pretty sure it's still breaking and entering when we're sneaking into private offices to photograph confidential documents."
"Semantics." Felix turned onto a tree-lined drive where security personnel directed a stream of luxury vehicles. "Remember—"
"Forty minutes during the auction. Avoid the main security cameras. Don't touch anything we don't photograph." I recited our plan for the tenth time. "And if caught, I'm hopelessly lost looking for the powder room."
His hand found mine across the console, warm and steady. "Ready?"
I nodded, though my heart hammered against my ribs. The sapphire gown he'd insisted on buying hugged my curves like liquid midnight, its weight both armor and disguise.
"Then let's go steal some evidence."
The valet opened my door, and I stepped into the cool evening air, the Blackwood estate looming before us—Georgian façade glowing amber against the twilight sky, massive oak doors thrown open in false welcome.
Felix's hand settled at the small of my back as we ascended the steps, his touch both reassuring and possessive. The entrance hall soared three stories high, crystal chandeliers casting fractured rainbows across marble floors.
"Felix!" A silver-haired woman in diamonds approached, air-kissing his cheeks. "We've missed you at the club. And who is this enchanting creature?"
"Mrs. Harrington, may I present Lyra Winters." Felix's hand settled possessively at my waist. "Lyra, Caroline's mother."
Understanding flickered through me—the woman Felix had mentioned, his mother's preferred candidate for daughter-in-law. Her assessing gaze swept over me, cataloging every detail from my borrowed jewels to my less-than-blue-blooded background.
"Charmed," she said, the word brittle as thin ice. "I understand you work for the foundation?"
"With the foundation," Felix corrected smoothly. "Lyra's authentication techniques are revolutionizing our acquisition process."
Mrs. Harrington's smile didn't reach her eyes. "How... specialized."
Before I could respond, a familiar voice cut through the ambient chatter.
"Cousin. You decided to grace us with your presence after all."
Alexander approached, resplendent in a tuxedo that emphasized his golden good looks. Vivienne floated beside him like a poisonous ghost, draped in silver that made her pale beauty almost otherworldly.
"Wouldn't miss it," Felix replied, his tone pleasant but eyes cold. "The foundation's commitment to children's art education is unwavering."
Alexander's gaze slid to me, something predatory flickering behind his practiced charm. "Ms. Winters. I'm surprised to see you here after the... unfortunate incident at the gallery."
My spine stiffened. "I've never been one to hide from false accusations."
"Bold words," Vivienne interjected, her smile sharp as a blade. "Though I suppose when one's professional reputation is already compromised, there's little left to lose."
The barb struck its target, but I refused to flinch. "Some of us value truth over theater, Ms. Sinclair."
Tension crackled between us, electric and dangerous. Felix's hand tightened at my waist—a warning, a reminder of why we were really here.
"The auction begins in twenty minutes," Alexander said, breaking the charged silence. "I trust you'll bid generously, Felix. The children's program could use your... support."
The emphasis wasn't subtle. Another dig in their ongoing power struggle.
"I always do," Felix replied smoothly. "Though I prefer to know exactly what I'm buying."
Alexander's smile tightened fractionally. "Don't we all."
As they moved away to greet other guests, Felix guided me toward a less crowded corner of the hall.
"He's suspicious," I murmured.
"Good." Felix's breath warmed my ear. "Let him focus on watching us here while we access what he's hiding upstairs."
The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur of introductions and small talk. I smiled and nodded at Boston's aristocracy, playing the role of Felix's enchanting date while mentally reviewing our plan. The weight of what we were about to attempt pressed against my chest, making each breath an effort.
When the chimes sounded announcing the auction, guests began migrating toward the grand ballroom. Felix nodded subtly toward a service corridor partially hidden behind a massive floral arrangement.
"Now," he whispered.
We slipped away from the crowd, my heart pounding so loudly I was certain someone would hear it. The service corridor was dimly lit and smelled of furniture polish and secrets. Felix moved with the confidence of someone who had spent childhood years exploring every hidden passage of the estate.
"Security cameras?" I asked as we ascended a narrow staircase.
"Only at the main junctions. We're avoiding those." He glanced at his watch. "Seven minutes to reach the office."
The family wing felt different from the public areas—more intimate, less performative. Old portraits lined the walls, generations of Blackwoods staring down with the same sharp eyes Felix had inherited. We moved silently across plush carpets, pausing at each corner to check for staff or security.
"Here." Felix stopped before an imposing mahogany door. From his pocket, he produced a small electronic device. "Alexander updated the locks, but not the system they're connected to."
The device blinked green. The lock disengaged with a soft click.
Alexander's private office breathed power and privilege—leather-bound books, antique maps, a massive desk of polished walnut that had probably witnessed a century of Blackwood machinations.
"Start with the filing cabinet," Felix directed, moving toward the computer. "I'll access his digital records."
I crossed to the cabinet, testing the drawer. Locked. From my clutch, I withdrew the set of picks Felix had taught me to use over the past week. The lock was good but not impossible—three tense minutes later, it yielded with a satisfying click.
"Financial records are in the bottom drawer," Felix said without looking up from the computer. "Anything labeled 'acquisition' or 'private collection.'"
My fingers rifled through immaculately labeled folders. "Found them."
The first file contained purchase records for the Botticelli series—eight million each, as Felix had said. But the accompanying bank statements told a different story. Only two million had actually been transferred to Rousseau's gallery. The remaining six million per painting had been routed through a labyrinth of offshore accounts before returning to... Alexander's personal holdings.
"Felix," I whispered. "Look at this."
He joined me, scanning the documents over my shoulder. "Self-dealing. He's laundering money through his own art purchases."
"But why fake paintings? Why not use legitimate art?"
"Because legitimate art has provenance that can be traced. These forgeries appear and disappear at his convenience." Felix's expression darkened. "And there's another reason."
He returned to the computer, typing rapidly. "Here. The insurance valuations."
The screen displayed policies on each painting—insured for twelve million each.
"He's inflating the values," I realized. "Buying forgeries for effectively two million, claiming they cost eight, insuring them for twelve..."
"And then they'll conveniently be 'stolen' or 'damaged,'" Felix finished. "Insurance fraud on top of money laundering."
I activated the camera in my pendant, systematically documenting each page. "This is enough to trigger a federal investigation."
"Keep looking," Felix urged. "We need everything."
I moved to the next drawer, finding more files—more forgeries, more transactions. The scale was staggering. Tens of millions flowing through this artificial market Alexander and Vivienne had created with Rousseau.
A folder at the back caught my eye—unmarked, thinner than the others. I pulled it out, flipping it open.
My blood froze.
Inside was a dossier on me. Photos from my previous life—me entering my apartment building, at the museum where I'd worked, even one of me and Alexander at a restaurant, my face circled in red. Notes detailed my education, my authentication techniques, my research papers.
But the date on the surveillance report was what made my hands shake: three years ago. Before I'd ever met Alexander in my previous life.
"Felix," I whispered, my voice strangled. "Look at this."
He took the file, his expression shifting from confusion to shock. "This is from before..."
"Before everything," I confirmed. "Before he approached me at that faculty reception. Before we ever met."
"He was targeting you specifically." Felix's voice hardened. "But why?"
I flipped through more pages, stopping at a research proposal I'd submitted to the university—my specialized technique for detecting synthetic pigments in purported Renaissance works.
"Because of this," I said, the truth crystallizing with terrible clarity. "I developed a method that could expose their entire operation. They didn't approach me randomly—they needed to neutralize me."
"By bringing you into their circle," Felix realized. "Making you complicit. Or..."
"Or eliminating me when that failed." The words tasted like ashes. "My death wasn't just about jealousy or the baby. It was about silencing me."
The enormity of the revelation pressed against my chest. My entire relationship with Alexander—what I'd once believed was love—had been a calculated move in a criminal enterprise. Every kiss, every promise, every moment had been strategic manipulation.
Felix's hand found mine, anchoring me as the room seemed to tilt. "We have what we need," he said gently. "We should go."
I nodded, unable to speak past the knot in my throat. As Felix carefully returned the computer to its previous state, I replaced the files, making sure everything appeared untouched.
A noise in the hallway froze us both—footsteps, approaching.
"Someone's coming," I hissed.
Felix moved with startling speed, pulling me toward a paneled wall. His fingers found a hidden catch, and a section swung inward—a concealed door to what appeared to be a small study.
"Service passage," he whispered as we slipped inside. "Used by staff to enter without being seen."
We left the panel cracked open just enough to see Alexander's office. The main door opened, and Vivienne glided in, silver dress catching the light. She moved to the desk, opened a drawer we hadn't checked, and removed what looked like a small ledger.
As she turned to leave, she paused, head tilting like a predator scenting prey. Her eyes scanned the room slowly, lingering on the filing cabinet I'd just closed.
My heart stopped beating. Had I left something out of place? Some invisible tell that someone had been there?
Vivienne crossed to the cabinet, her fingers trailing across its surface. For one terrible moment, I thought she would open it, discover the lock had been picked.
Instead, she smiled—a cold, knowing curve of lips—and left, closing the door behind her.
"She suspects something," I breathed once her footsteps faded.
"But she doesn't know," Felix replied. "Come on. We need to get back before we're missed."
The return journey through the service corridors felt endless, each shadow potentially hiding security or staff. When we finally emerged near the grand ballroom, the auction was in full swing, a renowned auctioneer calling out bids for a donated Monet sketch.
"Just in time," Felix murmured as we slipped into seats at the foundation's table. "Lot seventeen is about to start."
Mrs. Cavendish, seated to my right, leaned over. "Where did you disappear to, dears? You missed the Degas."
"Showing Lyra the library," Felix replied smoothly. "She has a particular interest in first editions."
Mrs. Cavendish's eyes twinkled knowingly. "The library, of course. Though in my day, we called it 'stealing a moment alone.'"
I felt heat rise to my cheeks, grateful for the assumption that covered our actual activities.
Across the room, I caught Alexander watching us, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Vivienne whispered something in his ear, her eyes never leaving us.
"They know," I murmured to Felix.
"They suspect," he corrected. "But they can't be certain without revealing what they're hiding."
The auction continued, Felix bidding strategically on several lots to maintain appearances. My mind raced with what we'd discovered—not just the financial crimes, but the revelation that I had been targeted from the beginning. That my death had been not passion but calculation.
As the final lot closed, guests began moving toward the dining room for the gala dinner. Felix and I rose with the others, maintaining our façade of normalcy.
"One more hour," he said under his breath. "Then we can leave with the evidence."
I nodded, forcing a smile as another board member approached to discuss the foundation's latest acquisition. The weight of the camera pendant against my skin reminded me of what we carried—enough evidence to destroy Alexander and Vivienne's operation completely.
As we moved with the crowd toward dinner, a server approached with a tray of champagne. I reached for a glass, needing something to steady my nerves.
"I wouldn't," a voice said from behind me.
I turned to find a woman I didn't recognize—middle-aged, expensively dressed but slightly disheveled, her eyes too bright from alcohol or something stronger.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"The champagne." She swayed slightly, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. "They add things to it. For people they don't like."
Felix stepped closer, protective. "I'm sorry, you are...?"
"Diana Rousseau," she replied, the surname hitting me like a physical blow. "Claude's wife. Ex-wife. Widow. Whatever I am now."
"Widow?" Felix repeated sharply.
Diana's laugh held no humor. "Oh, he's not dead yet. But he will be, once they're done with him." She leaned closer, alcohol fumes mingling with Chanel No. 5. "Just like they were done with that girl. The one who knew too much."
My blood chilled. "What girl?"
"The pretty one. The expert." Diana's unfocused eyes drifted past us. "She wasn't supposed to find the records. Wasn't supposed to know about the pigments."
Felix's hand tightened on my arm. "Emma," he said, voice barely audible.
Diana nodded vaguely. "That was her name. Such a tragedy. Such a convenient tragedy."
Before we could question her further, a man in a security uniform approached. "Mrs. Rousseau, I believe it's time for you to leave."
"I was just going," she slurred, but her eyes found mine one last time. "Be careful, pretty girl. They don't like it when you know their secrets."
As security escorted her away, Felix and I exchanged glances heavy with understanding. Another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place—confirmation of what Felix had long suspected about Emma's death.
"We need to get this evidence somewhere safe," I murmured. "Tonight."
Felix nodded, his expression grim. "As soon as we can leave without drawing attention."
We entered the dining room, taking our assigned seats at the foundation's table. Alexander and Vivienne sat at the head table, the picture of wealthy philanthropy. Watching them smile and charm the crowd, knowing what lurked beneath their perfect façade, made my skin crawl.
"To the Blackwood Foundation," Alexander toasted, raising his glass. "And to another year of bringing art to those who need it most."
The irony was almost too much to bear—this man using stolen money to fund charitable works, building his reputation on the same foundation as his crimes.
As dinner progressed, I felt Vivienne's gaze on me repeatedly, calculating and cold. Once, when our eyes met across the room, she smiled—not her social mask, but something predatory and knowing.
She suspects, I thought again. But suspicion isn't proof.
And we had proof, nestled against my skin in the pendant camera. Proof that would end their operation, their freedom, their carefully constructed world of privilege and crime.
Felix's hand found mine under the table, squeezing gently. "Almost done," he murmured.
I nodded, forcing myself to pick at the exquisite food I couldn't taste. One more hour of performance. One more hour of pretending we hadn't just uncovered the truth that would destroy the Blackwood legacy.
One more hour before we could finally begin the endgame of my resurrection.
