"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"
The harsh sound of my father's voice, thick with accusation, seemed to ricochet off the high ceilings of the drawing-room, bouncing back at me like a physical force. The walls, lined with decades of carefully curated art, suddenly felt oppressively close. Even the faint ticking of the gilded clock on the mantelpiece seemed drowned out by the weight of his fury.
His outburst was immediately followed by the crisp slap of a document against the polished mahogany table—a gesture sharp enough to make the delicate crystal vases tremble. I kept my stance calm, almost statuesque, dressed in a simple black gown whose austerity seemed almost militant against the opulence around me. I met his furious gaze without flinching.
My father, Igor De Laurent, Head of the De Laurent Family and former Director of the De Laurent Gallery, was a study in contradiction: impeccably dressed, yet flustered beyond measure, red-faced, and leaning forward from the elegant sofa as though his entire being might launch itself at me in protest.
"I let you return to Meuracevia and take over as Director... and what's all this brouhaha about the Serenity Family and a possible forgery?!" His voice quivered somewhere between rage and panic, a dangerous combination that made even the servants outside the drawing-room shift uneasily.
I took a measured step forward, the soft rustle of my skirt echoing faintly in the heavy silence that followed, and allowed a small, deliberate sigh to escape my lips. Then, with careful precision, I reached out to tug gently on the lapel of his expensive suit, a gesture meant to steady him—or perhaps to remind him that I had the control here, in my own quiet way.
"It isn't anything you need to worry about, Father," I said, my voice smooth and even, carrying neither tremor nor apology. Despite the tension, I felt a fleeting moment of satisfaction as his hand instinctively clenched mine, a silent acknowledgment that he was, at least for a heartbeat, listening. I didn't let go.
"You know that a few years ago, after Marianne Dessaint died and her paintings began to surge in popularity, I was the first in line to acquire her studio... including all of her remaining works," I explained, allowing my words to unfold with the rhythm of rehearsed certainty. Each syllable was carefully measured, designed to remind him—and perhaps myself—of the meticulous care I had always taken in preserving the gallery's reputation.
I stepped back and allowed my gaze to drift over the ornate table where papers lay scattered, their edges catching the light. I didn't need to read them to know the panic they represented. "I discovered the Ballerina Painting myself. The painting bears Dessaint's signature, and I also have a certificate of authenticity from the Royal Art Association," I said, infusing my voice with the quiet, unshakable confidence that came from knowing the truth beyond any doubt.
Turning to face him again, the soft swish of my skirt punctuated the gravity of the moment. "Rest assured that there is no way that our painting is a forgery." My words carried a certainty I hoped would seep into him, though his eyes were still stormy, refusing to soften.
My father, however, was far from reassured. His hand ran through his thin, silver hair, tugging at it almost as if he could pull the answers from the strands themselves. "Well, of course!" he snapped, voice sharper than before, leaning back but still bristling with unease. "But in the off chance that the results aren't what we expected, who do you think stands to lose more?"
"The hotel could simply brush it off as a mistake," he continued, his tone dropping slightly as he leaned closer, "but us? The authenticity of every single piece in this gallery could be called into question."
The words hung heavily in the air, almost tactile, pressing down like the weight of the grand chandeliers above us. I felt a cold clarity settle into my chest: this wasn't just about one painting or one family feud. The reputation of the De Laurent Gallery—the legacy of our entire lineage—was at stake. The thought sent a shiver through me, even as I maintained my calm exterior.
---
The scene shifted to a private, opulent room, its walls lined with dark velvet and golden inlays, bathed in dim, jewel-toned light. A soft haze from scented candles lingered in the air, diffusing the light into pools of ruby and sapphire. A man and a woman, neither Diah nor Igor, were absorbed in a quiet but intense conversation, their bodies close as if proximity alone could carry the weight of their discussion.
The woman, her striking dark turquoise hair catching the dim light and glinting like polished jade, spoke with an urgency that contrasted her otherwise calm demeanor. "I'm not lying," she insisted, her voice low and deliberate, almost a whisper meant only for him.
The man, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, met her gaze with an unshakable calm. "I know that," he replied, his tone measured, as though the reassurance was unnecessary yet offered out of habit.
"However," she continued, leaning slightly closer, her words conspiratorial, "there might be more to all this than you realize… Perhaps something you were unaware of. And even if your painting is genuine, proving it may not be straightforward."
Her eyes flicked toward a distant corner of the room, as if imagining the complex web of influence surrounding the issue. "It would be ideal if the Head of the Royal Art Association—or any appraiser—were impartial. But if they stand to gain more from taking Diah's side over yours, then the result of the authentication will depend entirely on their interests. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The unspoken understanding between them was stark: corruption, influence, and the invisible power wielded by the De Laurent name. Her words carried the weight of reality—the world of art, reputation, and legacy was never a matter of truth alone; it was governed by alliances and self-interest.
She reminded him of the public scrutiny surrounding the matter. That article is everywhere, she said silently with her gaze, so Igor De Laurent must have heard the news as well.
Her voice softened slightly as she outlined the inevitable consequences for Diah. "Which means," she said, almost to herself, "Diah will make sure her painting is deemed authentic, regardless of what the truth actually is. She won't risk disappointing Igor or jeopardizing her position as Director."
Her tone shifted, tinged with a mixture of cynicism and reluctant admiration for the ruthlessness she described. "If the Grayan way is to do whatever it takes to gain power… the De Laurent way is to use whoever they can," she mused, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the table.
She paused, reflecting on the deep-seated dynastic strategies of these great houses. "Just as the De Laurent family once aligned themselves with the Grayan family, no matter how much Diah might hate or fear him, she is desperate for Igor's approval. That is why she went along with her family's ways. Yes… because Diah is the current Director of the Gallery."
Her words carried a chilling finality. "Since they're business associates," she concluded, her voice carrying a cynical edge, "they'll do anything to make sure that relationship doesn't suffer."
Diah's Perspective
The realization hit me like a physical blow: the vast network of alliances and favors that underpinned my gallery—the very people I had relied on for the Certificate of Authenticity—was a web I could barely comprehend. The weight of the system pressed down on me, cold and unrelenting.
A sudden wave of dread made me STAGGER.
They'll do anything to make sure that relationship doesn't suffer.
They wouldn't betray the De Laurent Gallery—not if I was the one in charge. They would protect the status quo, even if it meant bending the truth. My official certificate existed, but the power it carried was only as strong as the people who stood behind me.
The truth was a secondary concern to the preservation of wealth and influence. And right now, I was at the very center of that influence, a cornerstone propped up by expectations, alliances, and the desperate need to secure my father's approval.
The turquoise-haired woman leaned into me, her breath warm against my ear, carrying with it a quiet mixture of challenge and temptation. She spoke softly, her words weaving a web around my thoughts. "Yes. Good. Keep going, just like that," she murmured, each syllable both encouragement and warning. Her eyes glinted in the dim, jewel-toned light, reflecting a cunning intelligence I could not ignore.
"Do you think that's the right way?" she asked, her tone playful yet cutting, testing my commitment to integrity in the face of overwhelming power.
I looked down at her, noting the faint curl of her lips as she waited for my response. There was a brief smile that touched my own face, though it was tempered by the gravity of the situation. Amusement mingled with resolve; her cynicism mirrored the reality I had come to know too well. I reached up, unconsciously adjusting the knot of my tie, a small act of grounding myself in the midst of scheming minds.
"Don't worry," I said, my voice calm but firm. "I'm not going to blindly trust the appraisers. I'll come up with a plan of my own."
I understood the stakes. There was no denying the entrenched power of the De Laurent Gallery. "There's nothing I can do right now to prevent the gallery from bribing or pressuring the Art Association," I admitted to myself, the bitter taste of inevitability lingering in my mouth. Diah's influence was formidable; the system had been carefully constructed to favor her position, to protect the gallery at every turn.
"However," I continued, my voice hardening as determination settled like steel in my chest, "I won't resort to their sneaky, underhanded methods. I'll use other means to prove that my painting is genuine." The words rang inside me, a quiet vow that felt heavier than any bribe or manipulation could ever be.
A new resolve washed over me, unshakable despite the odds stacked against me. I would not compromise my integrity, even if every hand in the room whispered of deceit and favoritism. My goal was simple, yet monumental: the truth, no matter how fiercely it was guarded against me.
"No matter how long it takes," I declared, my voice steady, "I'll uncover the truth."
The woman's hand, which had been resting lightly on my shoulder, momentarily caused me to stagger—not from weakness, but from the sheer weight of the vow I had just made. A subconscious reaction, a brief acknowledgment of the burden I was now carrying.
I collected myself, steadying my posture, my gaze locking with hers, sharp and unyielding. "I… have faith in myself…" I finished, the words soft yet resolute, drifting through the dim, opulent room like a whispered promise.
This was no longer merely a battle of appraisal or authentication. It was a test of principle, a confrontation of personal integrity against the corrupting might of the De Laurent name. And I would face it head-on, unflinching, with nothing but the certainty of my own conviction.
Serena leaned in, her dark turquoise hair brushing lightly against my cheek, her voice dropping to a low, husky whisper meant only for me. "You could face injustice… or stand to lose a lot for the time being," she cautioned, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of both warning and concern. Her presence was magnetic, her words pulling at my resolve even as they tested it.
I felt the soft slide of her hand along my collarbone, the subtle warmth and pressure a reminder of the stakes. Then came the firm squeeze of my arm, an instinctive gesture of reassurance. Despite the ruthlessness she often displayed, her concern for me was genuine, almost protective.
"Peaches?" I murmured, the word a curious non sequitur that slipped out amidst the gravity of our discussion, a private distraction to lighten the heaviness in the room.
She tilted her head, pressing a hand lightly against my chest. I felt a faint tap, tap as she punctuated her point. "A peach might taste sweet in my mouth… but it isn't right for me," she said, her analogy delicate yet firm, revealing her personal line of principle: she wouldn't compromise herself, even if bending the rules could be effective.
I chuckled softly against the faint scent of her hair, her perfume momentarily enveloping me. "It'll trigger my allergies and I won't be able to breathe…" I replied, leaning into the private whimsy of our shared analogy. In that brief moment, our boundaries and understanding aligned, a silent acknowledgment that though our methods differed, our intentions converged.
Serena pulled back slightly, her expression shifting to one of quiet reverence. Her eyes reflected thoughtfulness deeper than the immediate fight; she was considering not just strategy, but the meaning behind the contested artwork.
She murmured softly, almost to herself, "That painting is the result of my Mom and Marianne's collaboration…" Her words carried a weight of legacy, of personal history intertwined with the brushstrokes on the canvas.
A surge of protectiveness rose within me. "I won't let them taint it… like that," I promised, my voice steady, a vow extending not just to the art, but to the memory and honor of those who created it. As I spoke, I noticed her foot, previously resting lightly on the floor, relax; the shoe dropped softly onto the carpet, a subtle, almost imperceptible sign of comfort and trust.
I looked at her, my eyes catching the gentle glow of the ambient lighting, reflecting the depth of commitment we shared. "Indeed, Serena," I affirmed, letting the weight of my words settle between us.
Finally, I voiced the hope that guided my every step, the principle driving me against the De Laurent influence, the reason the risk mattered. "I hope the approach you and I are taking… reveals the truth one day."
In that moment, the conversation crystallized into a mutual understanding: a pledge to act with integrity, to honor the art, and to confront corruption with patience, strategy, and respect for the creators whose work had become the battleground of our convictions.
I barely remembered the light sliding past my eyelids, a jarring gold streak against the haze of my intoxication. Everything felt distant, muffled, as though the world existed through a veil of fog. I was being carried—his arm strong and steady beneath me, his chest a firm, warm surface pressing gently against my back. The vest brushing my cheek was cool and finely tailored, and beneath it, the faint scent of clean linen mingled with something richer—expensive cologne, sharp and faintly intoxicating itself.
I must have been quite drunk, because I had fallen asleep mid-motion, completely surrendered to the haze. I dimly registered that someone else was present—a figure standing near the marble pillar, silhouetted against the soft glow of the lamps. His hands were tucked into his pockets, posture rigid yet calm, his gaze cutting through the fog that clouded my mind.
He must have been drinking as well; his tie hung loosened, the knot slightly askew. So we were drinking together, I thought dizzily, a faint smile tugging at my lips despite the haze.
Fleeting memories from earlier in the evening flickered unbidden in my mind:
"I'd sometimes grab his necktie whenever I was intoxicated…
Usually if I was in a bad mood."
The recollection made my chest tighten a little—moments of mischief, of closeness, and of care wrapped together.
I tried to piece together the present. I wonder what's happened… for me to have fallen asleep like this? The thought struck me with a pang of embarrassment and a dull amusement. I must have been truly gone.
He carrying me spoke first, his voice low, calm, yet sharp with authority. "What are you doing here at this hour? You should be in your room."
The watcher's expression didn't change. His gaze remained steady, measured, as though weighing every detail of the scene. Then he spoke, voice precise, slicing through the tension like a finely honed blade: "I have something I must speak with Lady Serena about."
The man holding me didn't flinch, keeping his grip steady, the weight of his presence both protective and deliberate. "Unfortunately," he said, each word deliberate, dripping with cold finality, "it seems I doesn't particularly wish to see you."
There was a pause, a moment pregnant with the quiet tension of unspoken meaning. Then he added, almost casually, "I simply had something to report to him, that's all."
The words hung in the gilded, dimly lit room, as heavy and sharp as the scent of the perfume lingering on my skin. I felt a flutter of unease, a small stir of guilt and curiosity. Yet, despite the fog of intoxication, I felt an instinctive, quiet relief: I was safe in his arms, even if the watcher's presence carried an unmistakable edge of scrutiny.
I was still draped over Frederick's arm, feeling the lingering warmth of the wine and the steady, solid presence beneath me. Every subtle movement of his body, the way his muscles held me with careful control, reassured me, even as the tension between the two men thickened the air.
Eiser had just stated that he had something to report to me, but Frederick's dismissal was firm, calm, unyielding.
"Unfortunately," Frederick said, his voice level but carrying a quiet authority, "it seems I doesn't particularly wish to see you."
"I simply had something to report to him, that's all."
I could sense the subtle challenge in Eiser's posture, the way his eyes sharpened. He was attempting to assert dominance, to remind us both that he was my husband, the one with authority over this manor. Yet Frederick held his ground, unflinching, his protective role both silent and absolute.
Then Eiser changed tack. His tone sharpened, slicing through the room like a knife, each word deliberate and probing, clearly aimed at something far deeper than a nightly report.
"How long do you intend to remain at this manor?"
The words hung in the air like a challenge. I could feel the weight of their unspoken history pressing down around us—the past missions, the betrayals, the loyalty and the danger intertwined in each glance. The air around Frederick seemed to tighten, coiled and taut with anticipation. Eiser's question wasn't idle; he was referencing the true reason Frederick was here, the hidden mission beneath the guise of nightly routine.
"Seeing as how you haven't left yet, you clearly haven't found whatever it is that you're looking for."
Silence stretched for a heartbeat before Eiser's next words, each syllable deliberate, a scalpel attempting to cut into Frederick's resolve.
"It seems… whoever sent you didn't have all the information when deciding to have you infiltrate this manor."
It was more than observation—it was accusation. Frederick's failure, according to Eiser, was laid bare, a direct attempt to unsettle him.
"Don't you think you and whoever you're working for should start thinking of another plan?"
The taunt was unmistakable. Eiser's confidence radiated, a dark certainty that their objective was unattainable.
"You're the one who knows best, Frederick Bloom…"
He used Frederick's full name deliberately, each syllable a mark of disrespect, a challenge.
"...that otherwise, you'll perennially come up empty-handed."
The weight of the challenge pressed down, thick and suffocating. I felt it through Frederick, the rigid set of his shoulders, the controlled grip of his arm beneath me.
Finally, Frederick shifted, a subtle movement that betrayed nothing of his internal storm.
"I suppose I'll come back another day," Eiser conceded, his voice calm, almost neutral, yet carrying a hint of dark satisfaction, a reminder that the battle was far from over.
"Excuse me."
Frederick didn't reply. His focus was unwavering,