"What?"
"Your portfolio site. The one with the paintings. When did you create it?"
"Months ago." I frowned, trying to track his logic. "Before us. Before any of this. Why does that—"
"And this woman contacts you now." He stood. Moved around the desk toward me, his movements careful, controlled. "Right now. When Anton knows who you are and what you mean to me."
The joy curdled.
I felt it happen—the bright, effervescent hope souring into something heavier. Dread pooling in my stomach like cold water.
"It could be coincidence," I said. But my voice had changed. Lost its breathless excitement. Gone quiet and uncertain. "She could have just found me. That's how it works—people find artists online all the time. Algorithms, searches, word of mouth—"
"It could be." He was close enough to touch now, but he didn't reach for me. Just stood there, watching me with those warm brown eyes that had gone careful and assessing. "Or it could be exactly the kind of trap I would set if I wanted to lure someone out of protection."
The words landed like a blow.
"A trap?"
"Think about it." His voice was patient. Too patient. The voice of someone explaining something terrible with as much kindness as possible. "You've been staying here, in the compound. Protected. Watched. Anton can't get to you directly—we've made sure of that. But your art? Your dream? That's not something we can control."
My hands had started to tremble. I pressed them flat against my thighs, trying to still them.
"You think Elena Voss is working for Anton."
"I think the timing is suspicious." He reached for me then—finally, carefully. His fingers brushed my jaw, tilted my face up to meet his eyes. "I'm not saying your work isn't good enough for gallery representation. Your work is extraordinary. I've watched you paint. I've seen what you can do."
The praise should have warmed me. Instead it felt like consolation.
"But?"
"But Anton's people have been watching you." The gentleness in his voice was worse than anger would have been. "They know about our studio sessions. They've probably tracked your online presence. Your website, your posts, your comments. They could easily have found this email address, this portfolio. And if I were trying to draw you out, to get you somewhere unprotected . . ." He paused. Let the implication hang. "I would target the thing you want most."
The thing I wanted most.
My dream. Every childhood sketch and secret painting and turned-to-the-wall canvas, all of it distilled into one email from a woman named Elena who called my work luminous.
All of it, possibly fake.
"It could be real," I whispered. "It could just be a real agent who actually likes my work."
"It could be." His thumb traced my cheekbone. The touch was soft. Apologetic. "I hope it is. But I can't let you walk into something without knowing for certain. Not when the cost of being wrong could be your life."
The logical part of my brain understood. Could track his reasoning, could see the threat assessment laid out like one of his surveillance patterns. Anton was dangerous. Anton wanted leverage. Anton would absolutely use my dreams against me if he thought it would work.
But the rest of me—the part that had been crying happy tears twenty minutes ago, the part that had started to believe something wonderful was happening—that part wanted to scream.
"So what do we do?" My voice came out flat. Emptied of everything I'd felt when I'd burst through that door.
"I look into her. The gallery. Her background, her connections, everything. If she's legitimate, you'll know within the week. If she's not . . ." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't have to.
If she's not, the dream dies.
And I'm back where I started. Painting in private. Turning my canvases to the wall. Telling myself I never really wanted it anyway.
His arms came around me.
I let him hold me. But something had gone cold in my chest, and I wasn't sure his warmth could reach it.
