Prologue – Elara
Gosh, I am livid.
The city hums behind me. Horns, slush, the faint hiss of snow melting against the curb, but all I hear is the pounding of my heart. My gloves are damp, my coat dusted white, yet I don’t feel the cold.
I feel betrayal.
I slam the car door hard enough to make the driver flinch and storm up the townhouse steps two at a time. I’ve never hated my father more than I do at this moment. My body trembles as I climb, my mind replaying everything I uncovered about my father, David Chang, just a few hours ago. The papers are still in my bag—a set of shipping manifests that damn him completely.
My father. Using the museum’s collections to launder stolen art.
I’ve always known my father was a lying, cheating jerk, but I was born into this world, so there was only so much I could do. Still, I’ve done everything in my power to stay away from it. I don’t use the Chang name unless I have to, and although his influence could open a thousand doors, I’ve fought to earn everything on my own.
Including my position as an art restorer at the New York Museum.
Why can’t he realize I want nothing to do with him? And now, not only has he interfered with my career, but he’s also using the institution I love to clean his dirty money. It’s so wrong. Art is sacred. I won’t let him put his grubby hands on it.
I reach the front door and push my way inside, my anger rising with every step that brings me closer to him.
The foyer hits me like a punch of old money and bad memories. I left this place years ago, and every time I have to return, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
The marble floor gleams, black and white like a chessboard, polished so perfectly I can see my reflection in it. Fresh lilies sit in a tall crystal vase on the console table, their scent too sweet, too staged, like everything in this house.
Gold-framed mirrors line the walls, each one reflecting art pieces either stolen or bought through shady dealings. Ugh.
I follow the buzz of activity to the dining room. It’s enormous, with vaulted ceilings, glittering chandeliers, and walls dressed in silk and gold. The long mahogany table stretches almost the length of the room, already set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery that gleam under the warm light.
It’s only like this when Papa is preparing for one of his lavish dinners.
My unease deepens.
It’s not a good sign that he’s hosting a celebration right after moving stolen art for sale. It’s almost like he’s celebrating something—something dark and triumphant.
And I have a terrible feeling I’m about to find out what.
I bypass the staff, my gaze searching for him. I find his study door slightly ajar. I move toward it, ready to unleash the desperate, ugly truth I need him to face.
He stands at the head of his massive cherrywood desk, bathed in the soft light of a vintage Venetian lamp. He is on the phone.
“Yes.” His voice is clipped, just like his personality.
I watch him through the slight gap. He is every inch the tycoon. David Chang, his silver hair immaculate against his aged but still striking face. He wears an immaculate suit, tailored to perfection. He is always polished, and his sharp eyes, currentlyfocused on a point far beyond the room, reveal nothing at all. He is a work of art, but one carved from ice and deceit.
“The asset will be ready for review tonight,” he says into the phone. “The transfer is delicate, but guaranteed. Yes, the usual channels are too noisy now. We must finalize the sale quickly, before the shipment discrepancies surface.”
He pauses. “Okay. Goodbye.”
He snaps the phone shut. I am poised to attack, the furious, damnable evidence burning through the fabric of my bag. But I freeze. A lifetime of fear, of weariness, of trying to stay small and invisible around this man, keeps my hand from pushing the heavy door completely open. I am furious enough to destroy him, yet I am terrified of what he might destroy in return.
He looks up, catching my image in the polished glass of a framed map. He smiles. It’s the charming, deadly smile he uses for clients.
“Come in, Elara. You’re just in time.”
He turns, his back already to me, expecting me to fall into place like a good daughter. Normally, I would. But the sight of his rehearsed smile snaps the last thread of my control.
I burst into the room. “You’re laundering stolen art through my museum,” I accuse, my voice shaking but loud enough to rattle the air in the silent room. I practically spit the words. “You’re dragging me into your crimes.”
He doesn’t flinch. Not a flicker of surprise, not a hint of panic. He walks to a crystal decanter on a small side table and pours a measure of dark amber liquid. His movements are slow, deliberate, the very picture of unbothered sophistication.
