Morning comes too early, and I haven’t slept.
I spent the night staring at my ceiling, replaying every conversation with Tony.
Every touch.
Every look.
That card game on the train. Dinner in St. Petersburg. His hand in mine outside the Hermitage, making me feel like I wasn’t alone for once.
How much of it was real?
The question eats at me until I can’t stand lying here anymore. I grab my laptop and settle at the small desk in my bedroom. If Tony won’t give me answers, I’ll find them myself.
My contacts from Christie’s include people who know people. Art world connections overlap with intelligence networks more often than most realize. Forgers work with smugglers. Smugglers work with operatives.
Everyone talks if you know the right questions to ask.
I start with the basics. Tony Haugh, American, thirty-eight years old, former military. The public records show an honorable discharge eight years ago after twelve years of service. Standard information. Nothing remarkable.
But when I dig deeper through a contact who owes me a favor from my London days, the picture changes.
Tony’s military records are sealed. Not just classified, sealed at a level that requires special clearance to even confirm they exist. Standard soldiers don’t get that kind of protection. Special operations, maybe. Or intelligence work.
The gap in his employment history after he left the military three years ago is another red flag. According to Tony’s cover story, he transitioned into journalism. Freelance work. Contract assignments. But I can’t find a single piece of his published work before six months ago.
Six months was right around the time someone began investigating my family’s art transactions at Christie’s. Right around the time Adrian lost everything.
The timeline turns my stomach.
I keep digging. An hour passes. Then two. My eyes burn from staring at the screen, but I can’t stop.
Finally, I find something.
A photograph buried in an archived news article about a humanitarian crisis in Syria four years ago. The article focuses on refugee camps and aid workers, but there’s a background image of military personnel coordinating with local forces. The photo quality is poor, grainy from being zoomed in too far.
But I recognize the man in the tactical gear standing just apart from the main group.
The build is right, and the height matches. Even though his face is partially obscured by sunglasses and a hat, the way he carries himself is unmistakable.
Tony.
The caption identifies the group as “private security contractors assisting with refugee protection.” Private security. Not journalism or standard military. The kind of work that exists in shadows and doesn’t leave paper trails.
I screenshot the image and save it to a folder of evidence that I’ve been building. Proof that everything he’s told me has been carefully constructed lies.
My hands shake as I close the laptop.
What hurts most isn’t even the deception; it’s remembering how safe I felt with him.
I’d started imagining a future with him, something I haven’t let myself do since I left Christie’s. Mornings together. A life built on trust instead of duty.
And now, I have to face the possibility that the man I was falling for doesn’t exist. That every moment of connection was preplanned. That he’s been playing a role this entire time while I gave him pieces of myself that I don’t share with anyone.
The thought makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or march into the living room and demand answers he probably won’t give me.
Instead, I get dressed.
Professional clothes.
