I don’t move. I just stand there, staring at the thin barrier between us, dread settling heavy in my gut.
Whatever is happening to my gallery didn’t come from outside.
It came from inside my marriage.
That thought lodges itself in my skull, sharp and unwelcome, but I refuse to let it settle. Not yet. What if I’m wrong? What if this is paranoia, jealousy, my own guilt looking for somewhere to land?
And then the darker question follows, relentless.
What if I’m not?
If Sienna is involved in this…if she fed someone information…if this is revenge—
I deserve the pain.
Every ounce of it.
But I won’t let it stand.
I leave the suite without another look at the bathroom door and head downstairs. My fingers move fast over my phone as I text Marko.
Garage. Now. We’re going to the gallery.
By the time I reach the car, he’s already there. This time, I don’t wait for him to open the door. I get behind the wheel. Marko slides into the passenger seat without comment.
“Found anything yet?” I ask as I start the engine.
He shakes his head. “Nothing solid. Whoever did this covered their tracks well. No sloppy entries. No obvious leaks. This isn’t amateur work.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they’re good,” he says grimly. “Very good.”
I drive in silence, knuckles tight on the wheel, the city blurring past as my mind runs faster than the car. Every turn, every red light, stretches the tension tighter in my chest.
When we reach the gallery, chaos greets us at the door.
The director meets me halfway across the floor, face pale, tie loosened, sweat at his temples. He talks fast—too fast—words tumbling over each other. Then he leads us into his office. He moves straight to his desk, wakes the computer with a sharp tap of the keyboard, and gestures for me and Marko to come closer.
The screen lights up, and my stomach drops.
Folders scroll past in rapid succession. Red warning icons bloom across the monitor like infections.
“Here,” he says, pulling up an email thread. “These went out at 3:17 a.m. Encrypted. Direct to every major investor.”
My name sits at the top of the signature.
I lean closer. The documents attached look right at first glance—letterheads, timestamps, seals—but the deeper I look, the more wrong they feel. Subtle distortions. A digit off in a serial number. A watermark placed a fraction too low.
Forgery.
He clicks again.
Another window opens. A ledger. Then another. Then another.
“Authentication files,” he says, swallowing. “They’re…gone. Not deleted. Removed. Like they were never here.”
He refreshes the page. Once. Twice.
