I'm utterly alone. No mother to shield me. No grandmother to offer hollow comfort. Just me against Father's iron will, against Prescott's predatory expectations. I don't know which loss cuts deeper—the mother I barely knew, or the grandmother who loved me but abandoned me to this fate through her silence.
My father turns sharply on his heel, his hand raised in a final gesture of dismissal.
I watch him storm down the hallway, his back stiff with rage, and for a long moment, I can't move. My body feels locked in place, the weight of his threats bearing down on me, but there's something stronger stirring inside me.
I can't let him take this from Paul.
I push off from the wall, determination hardening my resolve.
He may think he's won, but I won't let him bury me—or Paul's future.
Not without a fight.
Before I can move, my father strides toward Dr. Phillips, leaving me frozen in place. Their hushed conversation grows heated, fragments reaching my ears over the excited chatter of the crowd.
"...family heirloom..."
"...impossible..."
"...Merlin..."
The name sends a chill down my spine. Merlin, the legendary art thief. Why does my father care about Merlin?
"This exhibition ends now. Pack it up. All of it." Father's voice rises, drawing concerned looks from nearby patrons.
"But sir, the collection—" Dr. Phillips sputters in protest.
"Is over. Shut it down and deliver the paintings to my estate."
Dr. Phillips shoots me an apologetic glance as Father grabs my arm, pulling me toward the exit.
"We're leaving." His grip is painfully tight.
"Is everything alright, sir? Perhaps I should accompany you..." Prescott falls into step beside us, his face a mask of polite concern.
"Not now, Prescott. We'll be in touch." Father cuts him off with a sharp look.
The night air hits me like a slap as we exit the gallery. Reporters surge forward, sensing a story, but Father's glareholds them at bay. The limousine appears, a sleek black shadow in the night.
The ride home is tense and silent save for Father's occasional muttered curses. I stare out the window, mind whirling with questions. The city lights streak by in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color, each flash blending into the next.
What is the significance of the swan necklace? Why does it match my earrings, and how is Merlin connected to all of this?
The scent of leather and Father's cologne fills the car, familiar yet suffocating. I long to open a window, to breathe in the night air, but I dare not move. Father's anger is a living thing, filling the space between us.
"Our family's legacy is at stake." His voice is low and dangerous. "You will tell me everything you know about this... this artist."
NINE
Vivianne: The Swan Pendant
The Rolls-Royce glidesthrough the night, its powerful engine a mere whisper beneath us. Inside the plush interior, silence reigns, broken only by the occasional creak of fine leather as Father shifts in his seat. The privacy partition separates us from Robert, our chauffeur, cocooning us in a bubble of tension so thick it threatens to choke me.
I steal a glance at Father. His face is a mask of granite, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. Those steel-gray eyes, usually so cold and calculating, dart frantically between the tinted window and his phone, thumbs flying over the screen in a fury of silent communication.
"Father, please, what's going on?" My voice is small in the vast expanse of the car.
The silence that greets me is familiar. It's the same silence that's filled this house since I was three years old, since my mother died and left me with a father who doesn't know how to talk to his daughter.
