The elevator chimes.
I look up just as the doors slide open and Marko strides into the studio, fast and sharp, like a man running on instinct. His usual calm is gone. His eyes are wide, jaw set.
I straighten. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t waste time. “The gallery director just called.”
My chest tightens. I stay silent, watching his mouth, already bracing.
“He was rambling,” Marko continues, pacing now. “Authentication files are missing. Entire chains of custody—gone. Two investors pulled out this morning. Another three are ‘reviewing their positions.’”
My blood turns to ice.
“And,” Marko adds, slower now, “there are encrypted emails circulating. Provenance logs. Contracts. All of them point to forged acquisitions.”
I say nothing. I can’t. The room feels too small.
“All forged,” he emphasizes. “Not your work.”
Of course they aren’t.
Someone is very careful. Very thorough.
Someone wants it to look like I built my reputation on lies.
My mind races—years of curating, negotiating, protecting every piece like it was a living thing. Every artist who trusted me. Every collector who believed in my name.
All of it—my gallery, my credibility, my life’s work—flickers in front of my eyes like a house catching fire.
“This isn’t incompetence, Sebastian,” Marko says grimly. “It’s a frame. Someone is dismantling you piece by piece, and they’re very meticulous about it.”
My stomach swirls and dips.
Slowly, I turn back toward the covered easel.
Sienna’s face hides beneath the cloth.
Last night’s closeness. This morning’s peace. The fragile sense of home I dared to believe in.
And suddenly, a thought slides into place—quiet, terrible, undeniable.
“Pull everything offline,” I say, my voice stripped of emotion. “Every ledger. Every certificate. I’m coming in.”
Marko nods once. No argument. No questions. He pivots and disappears back into the elevator, his shoulders rigid, panic packed tight beneath discipline.
I move to the bar on instinct and pour vodka into a tumbler, the liquid sloshing too hard against the glass. My hand lifts it. Then stops.
I stare at the clear burn waiting for me—an old crutch, an easy escape.
Not today.
I set the glass down untouched and turn away from the studio.
My steps are light as I head back to the suite. Like if I move carefully enough, the ground won’t crack beneath me. I refuse to let the dread take shape. Refuse to give it breath.
I reach the suite and push the door open.
Sienna stands at the window, still as a statue, staring out at the city like it might confess something if she looks hard enough. For a split second, the fear loosens its grip, because she’s there.
