Looks like the time has come.
My hand trembles as I pluck the envelope from the gate.
The moment my fingers brush the thick, expensive paper, relief surges through me.
This can’t be how they send eviction notices. No government letter ever came dressed like this.
If anything, it feels more like one of the gala invitations my parents used to receive, back when we still belonged to that world.
Forgetting something?You’re not a part of that world anymore. Meaning someone either sent this to mock you, or…
“To hell with this.” With this day, this life, this envelope, and whoever sent it.
Furious energy surges through me, jolting me awake as I rip the damn thing open…
And yank out the card from inside.
2
ELOWYN
ON BEHALF OF THE RESTORER
You, Elowyn Faye Montgomery, are hereby invited to participate and assist in a private restoration commission.
Compensation: $10 million, issued in installments upon successful completion of each phase.
Condition: Immediate relocation to the designated residence for the duration of the project.
Should you have questions or wish to accept, text the number listed below.
I rub my thumb over the embossed gold letters. The pad of my finger drags over each one as my mind tries to make sense of the words. Of this message printed on expensive black paper.
The Restorer.
A private commission.
Ten million dollars.
Immediate relocation.
Again and again, I read it, refusing to believe anything like this would be addressed to me.
I can’t possibly be a part of aprivate commission. Can’t be useful to someone like The Restorer.
Granted, I know who he is. The whole world does, I think.
For the past six or seven years, I’ve heard his name whispered everywhere.
That is, before Barclay’s drama shut us out entirely from the people of this town.
Never mind. I’m not going to obsess over the past when a brighter future is just within reach.
Thanks to The Restorer. The enigma. The tall man with thick brown hair who always wears a mask to his meetings. A plain white one, smooth as porcelain, the kind worn at masquerades.
His true identity remains a secret, but his clients trust him anyway—for good reason. Everyone, including the wealthiest people in the country, hands him their paintings, sculptures, and antique books. Some say he’s such a perfectionist that it’s as if the spirit of every artist whose work he restores takes over. The pristine condition in which he returns their pieces is unmatched.
At that reminder, my optimism vanishes as if it never existed.
