Page 114

That answer stops me.

Charlotte looks toward the photograph of the painting.

“My grandfather spent much of his life trying to reconstruct what the family lost,” she says. “Not because he believed every object should be returned simply because it had once belonged to us. He wanted the history documented correctly. This painting was different for him.”

“Why?”

“It hung in his mother’s bedroom when he was a child.”

Her voice remains controlled, but the meaning underneath it does not need embellishment.

“He remembered it until the day he died,” Charlotte continues. “I have the means to buy it if the current owners are willing to sell it. I don’t want a public fight. I don’t want headlines. I want someone who understands both the history and the people holding it now.”

I look down at my name on the archival reference again. Professionally, this is exactly the kind of engagement I should take.

The client has a clear objective, credible documentation and realistic expectations. The work would be significant without being theatrical, and a successful private reacquisition would matter both to Charlotte and to the firm. She is also an established client whose wider collection relationship is important enough that refusing the assignment without a substantive professional reason would be difficult to explain.

Unfortunately, every professional reason to say yes exists alongside one deeply personal reason to say no.

“Charlotte, I need to be transparent about something,” I say.

“My previous work with the Kensingtons was professional, but it was also seven years ago. People may have changed. Internal structures may have changed. I can’t promise that my prior involvement will result in special access or cooperation.”

“I’m not asking you to promise that.”

“I also wouldn’t use a past relationship to pressure them.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

Her answer comes without hesitation.

“What I want,” Charlotte says, “is the person whose work is already inside that file.”

I glance at the document again. My own handwriting is probably still buried somewhere in the underlying archive. Notes made at long tables. References checked after midnight. Files carried through corridors I can still remember if I let myself.

I do not let myself. At least, I try not to. But the thought of Ross arrives anyway. Not as an abstract memory of a man I once knew, but in pieces sharp enough to make my body remember before my mind can intervene. Pale-blue eyes fixed on me from across the library. His voice lowered when we were alone. The pressure of his hand at my waist. The absolute confidence with which he could control an entire room without raising his voice, followed by the very different kind of control he exercised when the doors closed and there was no one left to impress. Heat moves low through me before I can stop it.

I hate that.

Seven years should be enough time for a body to forget someone. Mine apparently missed that instruction.

I remember his hands more clearly than I want to. I remember the way his mouth felt against mine, the sound of his voice when he stopped being careful, and the ease with which I once surrendered control to him because I trusted what he would do with it.

Then the last night replaces all of it.

The same man who could make me feel completely safe in his hands had decided, without asking me, that the safest place for me was outside of his life. I close the file.

“I’ll need to review the full documentation before I commit to an approach,” I say.

Charlotte watches me carefully. “Of course.”

“I’d also want our counsel to confirm that your objectives are exactly as you’ve described them. Private negotiation, no adversarial claim unless something materially different emerges from the research.”

“That’s acceptable.”

“If the provenance supports the history and the Kensington side is willing to engage, then we can explore a private purchase.”

Charlotte’s expression softens slightly. “Does that mean you’ll take it?”