But tonight, even the art feels fragile.
My hands tremble as I smooth a thin layer of varnish onto a Renaissance panel, trying to steady my breath, trying to bury the memory of what I heard at the townhouse a few hours ago. The brushes, the silence, the soft mechanical hum of the dehumidifier, they should calm me. They usually do.
Not tonight.
His voice is still inside my head. The toast. The laughter. The clink of crystal glasses, echoing like chains.
“My daughter will be back. Her hand will seal our business; she’s my currency.”
Those words roll through me, a cold stone down my throat. I see the candlelight, the false charm, the foreign buyers with predatory smiles while I sat there like some item on display. Surrounded by the work I love, I can still feel their eyes on me: appraisal, transaction, betrayal.
The varnish brush slips in my grip and streaks too close to the edge. I curse under my breath, pull back, and force my hands to stillness. Steady, Elara. Breathe.
It’s useless. Everything I thought untouchable—my work, my integrity, the small, honest life I’ve built—tastes tainted now. The truth sits in my bag, folded between folders: shipping manifests that map my father’s greed in ink. David Chang, using the museum as a laundromat for stolen art.
I wash my hands and press the towel to my face, wishing I could scrub the image of that dining room from my skin. If Istay, he’ll corrupt the only pure thing I have left. If I stay, he’ll find some new way to use me.
I set the towel down, straighten my shoulders, and turn back to the panel. The paint catches the light, and for a breath I let the work pull me back—the tiny, perfect repairs, the gratitude of a restored pigment. It steadies me for a second, but the decision I already know waits at the edge of that calm.
I will not let him sell me. I will not let him sell what I love.
Tonight, I will run. And before I go, I will ruin him in a way he can never recover from.
“Elara?”
I turn, startled, to see Wahlberg, the museum’s Chief of Security, stepping into the studio, his familiar smile warm beneath the dim overhead light. “You’re still here? I was about to lock up.”
I force a small smile, careful to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, I’ve got a few more things to finish. Don’t worry, I’ll close up.”
He glances at the clock on the wall. It’s already ten p.m. The museum should be shutting down now, lights dimming, corridors emptying. But the night guards know I sometimes stay late—lost in my work, needing the quiet. I’ve earned that privilege, and tonight, I need it more than ever.
Wahlberg hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, then. Just don’t stay too long, yeah? Take care.”
“Will do,” I say, watching him head toward the door.
He waves once before disappearing down the hall, his footsteps fading into silence.
“Goodnight, Wahlberg,” I call softly after him, my voice echoing faintly off the marble.
The sound dies quickly, swallowed by the stillness.
And just like that, the museum belongs to me—and to the plan that’s been burning in my mind all night.
My car is parked in the garage outside. Inside it, there’s a suitcase I packed in a rush after stopping by my apartment an hour ago. I’ve booked a flight to London, where I’ll lay low for six months before figuring out my life. The flight leaves in two hours.
But before then…I have to deal with my father.
I have to show him that I’m not someone he can buy, sell, or barter.
I wait thirty more minutes, just to be sure no one else is coming in. Then I hurry out of the studio and down the hall toward the climate-controlled storage room where shipments are kept before they’re sent out. The museum is silent, every step of mine swallowed by its cavernous stillness. Even though I’m certain no one’s here, I move carefully, making sure my footsteps don’t echo.
At the end of the corridor, I reach the storage room and scan my keycard. The lock clicks open. I slip inside, heart thudding. The air is cooler here, and the faint scent of wood and varnish fills the space. Rows of massive wooden crates stretch out before me, each labeled and sealed.
I pull the folded shipping manifest from my pocket and smooth it open. My eyes dart down the list until I find the tracking number I’m looking for—my father’s goods. Three crates. I scan the rows until I spot them, marked with a foreign insignia.
There they are.
Untouched. Waiting.
