"The Bellini collection isn't for sale, Mr. Thorne."
Marcus didn't look up from the Renaissance painting.
"Everything's for sale," Marcus said. "The question is whether you're willing to name the real price."
Aria studied the Madonna and child. The kind of piece that would've made her parents weep. The Kozlov gallery had specialized in Russian imperial art, but her mother had loved the Italian masters.
"The piece has been in my family for three generations," Whitmore protested.
"Which is precisely why you'll sell it," Marcus continued. "Your family's financial obligation is consuming you, you know what I'm talking about, don't make me start listing them."
"I'll need time to consider…" Mr Whitmore started to say.
"You have until we finish viewing the collection," Marcus said. "After that, the offer expires."
Whitmore nodded and went back to his office. The moment they were alone, Marcus's hand slid lower on Aria's back, fingers spreading across Aria's hip.
"Was that necessary?" she asked.
"He's been stringing along buyers for months, waiting for someone desperate enough to meet his inflated asking price. I don't do desperation.
"You don't even like religious art." She said.
"I don't like being lied to." He guided her toward the next piece. "Whitmore's been advertising the Bellini as sixteenth century. It's a nineteenth-century copy. Masterful work, but not worth a tenth of what he's asking."
"Then why offer to buy it?" she asked.
"Because he doesn't know I know. And watching his nervousness and discomfort as he tries to decide whether to confess or take the money is more entertaining than the actual acquisition." Marcus said.
They moved through the gallery, and Marcus's hand grew bolder.
"You're doing this on purpose," she whispered as they paused before a supposedly Caravaggio portrait.
"Doing what?" He asked.
"Touching me. Making me think…"
"Think what? That right now you're not wearing anything under that dress because I told you not to?"
Her breath caught. "Marcus…."
"No one can hear us. And even if they could, do you think I care? You're mine, Elena. In business meetings and bedrooms and everywhere in between."
A gallery attendant led them to a private viewing room where Whitmore had laid out additional pieces. Marcus evaluated each one with efficiency, pointing out flaws and forgeries.
"Mr. Thorne," Whitmore finally said. "I should inform you…"
"That it's a copy?" Marcus didn't look up from the sketch he was examining. "I know. The question is whether you're going to admit it and renegotiate honestly, or I walk out and inform every major collector in Europe that you've been peddling nineteenth-century forgeries as Renaissance masterpieces."
The color drained from Whitmore's face. "I... the attribution was provided by the previous owner. I had no reason to doubt…"
"You had every reason to doubt. You chose not to because the lie was more profitable." Marcus finally looked at him. "I'm still interested in purchasing several pieces. But we're going to discuss actual value, not fantasy pricing."
Marcus argued down Whitmore's prices. Offering detailed analyses of why each piece was worth a fraction of the listed value. Whitmore thanked him for it by the end.
"He's actually grateful," Aria murmured as they left the gallery an hour later, contracts signed.
"I gave him fair market value and let him save face." Marcus led her into the waiting car, sliding in beside her. "He'll keep telling the story about negotiating with Marcus Thorne for years."
"Except he got a fraction of what he wanted," she added.
"He got what the art was actually worth." Marcus pulled her against him as the car merged into London traffic. "And I got something far more valuable."
"The art?"
"You, watching me work. Getting wet every time you are watching me." His hand found her bare thigh under the dress. "Did you think I didn't notice? Every time I backed Whitmore into a corner, you pressed your thighs together."
She wanted to deny it, but his fingers were moving higher up her thighs..
"The driver…"
"Don't worry, he can't see through the privacy screen." Marcus's mouth found her neck. "I've been thinking all morning. Watching you move through that gallery in this dress. Knowing you were bare underneath."
His fingers found wet heat, and she bit back a moan.
"That's it, Elena," he murmured. "Let me feel how much you want me."
The car wound through London streets while Marcus worked on her. He brought her to the edge twice, then pulled back.
"Marcus, please…"
"Please, what?" His fingers stilled. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want."
"Say it."
"I want you to make me come," she murmured.
"Where?" He asked.
"Right here and now. I don't care that we're in a car…"
He moved, and suddenly she was totally losing control, and she cried out his name. The orgasm rolled through her while Marcus held her against him, showering her with praises.
When she could breathe again, she found him watching her with dark eyes.
"We have two more galleries to visit today," he said. "And I expect you to maintain that same level of responsiveness at each one."
"You're insane."
"No." He kissed her, slow and deep. "I'm claiming what's mine. Every response, every gasp is mine. And before this trip is over, you're going to understand that completely."
The car pulled up to their next appointment. Aria's phone buzzed.
A message from Vera: We need to talk. Tonight.
Aria deleted it without responding, following Marcus into the gallery.
They followed the owner. The woman opened a door to a private viewing room. Inside, a single painting hung on the wall. A woman reading a letter by candlelight, her face half in shadow.
"Vermeer?" Aria breathed.
"Attributed," the owner said carefully. "The provenance is solid, but we haven't been able to get definitive authentication."
Marcus looked at Aria. "What do you think?"
She moved closer, studying the brushwork. The technique was right, and the period matched. But something felt off about the canvas itself.
"May I?" she asked the owner.
"Of course."
Aria took out her magnifying lens to inspect something closely, examining the surface. The cracks looked artificial; someone had made the painting look old on purpose.
It was a forgery. A masterful one, but still a fake.
Yesterday, she'd lied to protect Marcus. Today, she could tell the truth.
But then she saw it. In the corner of the canvas. A tiny mark. A signature style she recognized.
Her father's work.
Her hands started shaking. This wasn't just any forgery. This was one of her father's pieces. He'd specialized in Dutch masters, creating perfect copies for educational purposes. This painting had probably been stolen from their gallery after the massacre.
After Marcus supposedly ordered their deaths.
Her vision blurred. This painting was proof. Proof that someone had access to her family's collection or that the massacre was connected to art theft.
And most especially proof that maybe Marcus really was…
"Elena?" His voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Are you alright?"
This didn't prove anything. Her father's forgeries had been sold to museums and collectors. Anyone could have access to them.
Or this could be a test.
"I need more time with it," she said. "Can we arrange for a private examination tomorrow?"
The owner nodded. "Of course. Take all the time you need."
They left the gallery shortly after. In the car, Marcus pulled her close.
"You saw something," he said. "In that painting. What was it?"
"Just want to be thorough." She kept her voice steady. "This is a major purchase."
"That's not what I'm asking." His hand cupped her face. "You went pale when you examined it. Like you'd seen a ghost. What did you see?"
"I'm just tired," she lied. "Can we go back to the hotel?"
Marcus studied her for a long moment. Then nodded. "Alright."
Back at the hotel, Marcus poured wine while Aria stood by the window.
"Come here," Marcus said softly.
She turned. He was sitting on the couch, watching her.
"I said Come here."
She crossed the room and stood before him.
"Kneel."
Her breath caught. "Marcus…"
"Kneel. Now."
She sank to her knees, her heart pounding.
His hand tangled in her hair. "Now tell me what's wrong."
"I'm just overwhelmed," she said. "This trip. Us. Everything's happening so fast."
"That's true, but it's not all of it." His grip tightened slightly. "You're scared of something. And I need to know what it is."
She wanted to tell him everything. But the words wouldn't come.
"I don't need protection."
"Everyone needs protection." He pulled her up into his lap.
She wanted to argue. But his arms felt solid around her.
"Just hold me," she whispered. "Please."
Marcus did without demands or questions. Just his arms around her and his heartbeat steady under her cheek.
Her phone buzzed. Another message from Vera: I'm still in London. I waited at that café for an hour. We're meeting tomorrow, whether you like it or not.
"Elena?" Marcus's voice was concerned. "What's wrong? You just went tense."
"Nothing. Just work stuff."
"You're lying." His arms tightened around her. "But I'm not going to push. When you're ready to tell me what's really going on, I'll be here."
They sat in silence, but Aria's mind was racing. Vera was in London. Had proof about Marcus. Was demanding a meeting. And Aria was running out of time to decide whose side she was on.
Marcus's phone rang. He answered, "Yes. Tonight? That's earlier than planned." He glanced at Aria. "Alright. I'll be there in an hour."
He hung up and turned to her. "I have to go out. Emergency meeting with a potential acquisition that can't wait."
"How long will you be gone?"
"A few hours. Maybe longer." He kissed her forehead. "Order room service. Get some rest. And Elena?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever's bothering you, whatever you're afraid of, we'll figure it out together. I promise."
After he left, Aria sat alone in the suite. Her phone buzzed again.
Vera: Tomorrow morning. 10 AM. The same café in Bloomsbury. Don't make me come find you.
Aria stared at the message. This was it. Tomorrow, she'd have to face Vera.
She poured herself more wine and stood by the window, watching London.
Her phone buzzed one more time.
Vera: Bring your passport tomorrow. We might need to leave London quickly after you see what I have to show you.
What could Vera possibly have that would require leaving London? What proof was so damning that they'd need to run?
She remembered the painting she'd seen that day, the one with her father's hidden signature. It was the piece stolen from their gallery, and now it had somehow found its way into Marcus's collection process.
Was that the proof? Or was there more?
She opened her laptop and pulled up the research she'd been doing on her father's forgeries. Tracking where they'd ended up. Who had purchased them? Whether there was any connection to Marcus Thorne.
So far, nothing. The pieces had been sold through legitimate channels to museums and private collectors. There were no red flags or connection to Marcus or his companies.
But someone had access to them. Someone had stolen pieces from the gallery after the massacre. And those pieces were showing up now, five years later, in galleries where Marcus just happened to be shopping.
That couldn't be a coincidence.
Could it?
Aria's head was pounding. She closed the laptop and went to take a shower, hoping the hot water would clear her mind.
It didn't.
By the time Marcus returned, it was past midnight. Aria was curled on the couch in a hotel robe.
"You're still awake," he said, loosening his tie.
"Couldn't sleep."
He walked to her, studying her face. "You look exhausted."
"Just thinking too much."
"Then stop thinking." He pulled her to her feet. "Come to bed. Let me help you relax."
"Marcus, I don't think I'm in the mood for…"
"I'm not asking for sex." He led her toward the bedroom. "I'm asking you to let me hold you while you sleep, that's all."
She was moved and confused; his gentleness clashed with everything she believed about him, and it stirred deep feelings in her.
"Okay," she whispered.
They climbed into bed together. Marcus pulled her against his chest, his arms solid around her.
"Whatever's bothering you," he murmured into her hair. "Whatever you're dealing with. You don't have to face it alone."
"Thank you," she managed.
"Sleep, Elena. Tomorrow we'll figure it out."
But Aria couldn't sleep. She lay awake in his arms. She had to make a choice.
The weapon she'd been trained to be or the woman she was becoming.
Aria realized she'd already made her choice.
She just didn't know if she'd be able to live with it.
Her phone buzzed one final time before she drifted off.
Vera:10 AM. Don't be late. What I have to show you will change everything.