Eva
His stillness is a threat. It’s in the perfect cut of his suit, the lethal calm of his hands, the way his eyes catalogue me not as a person, but as a problem to be solved.
I force my chin up. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, but I will not show him the terror that’s trying to choke me.
He takes a step into the room, and the door swings silently shut behind him. The lock engages with a soft, final click. We are alone.
“My name is Nathan Wilde,” he says. His voice is low, a smooth baritone laced with gravel, completely devoid of emotion. It’s the kind of voice that gives orders and expects them to be followed without question.
I remain silent. The name means nothing to me, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of asking.
“You’ve been remarkably calm,” he continues, his gaze unwavering. “Most women would be screaming.”
“Would that help?” I ask, my own voice tight but steady.
A flicker of something, maybe surprise, crosses his features before it’s gone. “No. It would not.”
He walks slowly toward the center of the room, his movements fluid, predatory. He stops by the marble coffee table, his back partially to me.
“Let’s not waste time with games, Isabella,” he says, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Your father has been expecting my call.”
Isabella. The name hangs in the air between us. It’s a key. It’s the answer to everything. This is a mistake.
“My father,” I say, the words coming out clipped and precise, “is a retired history teacher in Ohio. I believe the only call he’s expecting is about his new cable installation.”
He turns his head slightly, his profile sharp against the city lights. “That’s a foolish thing to say.”
“It’s the truth.” I take a small, defiant step forward. “You have the wrong person.”
“My men do not make mistakes.” The words are flat. A statement of absolute fact in his world.
“Then you need better men.”
That gets his full attention. He turns to face me completely, and for the first time, I see the mask of control slip. A fissure of cold fury appears in his eyes. He stalks toward me, closing the distance until he’s only a few feet away. I can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, something expensive and subtle, like bergamot and cedar.
“What is your name?” he commands.
“Eva Chandler.”
He stares at me, searching my face for a lie. He finds none. His gaze drops to the worn messenger bag my abductors must have thrown on the floor near the door. It’s the bag I dropped on the street. He walks over to it, bends down, and unzips it with one swift motion. He pulls out my worn copy of ‘The Chemistry of Color’ and my student ID.
He looks at the plastic card, his thumb brushing over my grainy photo. He looks from the picture to me, and then back again. The silence in the room stretches, becoming thin and sharp. I can almost feel the temperature drop as his fury solidifies into something much more dangerous: certainty. The certainty that his men have, in fact, made a colossal error.
He straightens up, the ID card held between two fingers. He doesn’t throw it. He doesn’t crush it. He simply places it on the marble table with chilling precision.
“It would seem,” he says, his voice now dangerously soft, “that I owe you an apology.”
The words are polite. The tone is lethal.
“An apology?” My laugh is a dry, shaky sound. “I think we’re a little past that. You can start by letting me go.”
He turns his back on me and walks to the wall of windows, staring out at the glittering skyline. His shoulders are rigid, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. He’s a statue of barely contained violence.
“Let you go,” he repeats, the words a hollow echo. He turns back, his face an unreadable mask of stone. “You have seen this apartment. You have seen my face. Letting you go is not an option.”
Ice floods my veins. This is it. The point where a mistake becomes a loose end. A loose end that needs to be tied up. Permanently.
“So you’re going to kill me because your hired thugs are incompetent?” I challenge, my voice rising despite my best efforts to control it. “Because they can’t tell the difference between a student and… whoever Isabella is?”
“Lorenzo Rossi’s daughter,” he supplies, his eyes narrowed. “And my men’s incompetence will be dealt with. That is my problem. You, Miss Chandler, are my other problem.”
He begins to pace, a caged tiger in a bespoke suit. “Tell me everything. Why were you on that street, at that time?”
“I was walking home.”
“From where?”
“The university library. I’m a graduate student.”
He stops pacing and looks at me, a new kind of interest in his eyes. The predator is reassessing its prey. “What do you study, Eva Chandler?”
“Art history.”
His eyebrow quirks, just slightly. It’s the first unguarded expression I’ve seen on him. “Art history.”
“Yes,” I say, a flicker of my old academic indignation surfacing. “My specialization is in pigment analysis and the detection of nineteenth-century forgeries.”
The word hangs in the air. Forgeries.
His intense focus sharpens, like a lens clicking into place. The fury in his eyes is replaced by a keen, calculating light. The entire atmosphere in the room shifts. The immediate threat of violence recedes, replaced by something far more complex and unnerving.
“You detect forgeries,” he says. It is not a question.
“I do. My thesis is on identifying fakes by analyzing microscopic flaws in the canvas weave, a technique most authenticators overlook.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, why I’m offering up this piece of myself, except that it’s the only ground where I feel powerful.
He is silent for a long moment. His gaze drifts from me to the large abstract painting on the wall, then back to me.
“That painting,” he says, nodding toward the splash of cobalt and crimson. “Tell me about it.”
Is this a test? My mind races. I walk closer to the piece, my professional instincts taking over, a welcome shield against the fear.
“It’s not a de Kooning, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I begin, my voice finding its familiar, confident rhythm. “The artist is clearly a student of his work, though. You can see the influence of the ‘Woman’ series in the violent energy of the brushstrokes. But the impasto technique is different. Thicker, more deliberate. This is an homage, not a copy. The artist is confident, talented, and knows their own worth.”
I glance back at him. “It’s also incredibly expensive.”
Nathan Wilde stares at me, his expression unreadable. The dangerous energy that had crackled around him has settled into a deep, unnerving calm. He is no longer looking at me as a mistake. He is looking at me as if I am an equation he is suddenly, unexpectedly, on the verge of solving.
“You are very observant, Miss Chandler.”
“It’s my job to be,” I reply, holding his gaze.
“Indeed.”
He walks toward the door, his purpose absolute. My heart seizes. Is he leaving? What happens now?
He stops, his hand on the smooth, handleless panel. “I have a business arrangement. A very important one. It hinges on the acquisition of a particular piece of art.”
He turns to face me, his storm-grey eyes pinning me in place. “Its authenticity is… paramount.”
The implication is terrifying. It’s absurd. It’s my only way out of this alive.
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper.
“I am always serious,” he counters, his voice a silken threat. “The world’s most renowned expert has already given his opinion. But I find myself in need of a second one. Someone who specializes in… overlooked flaws.”
My mind is spinning. Captor to client? Hostage to consultant? The absurdity is breathtaking.
“You kidnapped me,” I state, the words feeling inadequate.
“A regrettable, and as it turns out, potentially fortuitous error,” he says, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It does not reach his eyes. “Get some rest. We have much to discuss in the morning.”
The door slides open. He steps out, not looking back.
“Wait,” I call out, my voice desperate. “What if I say no?”
He pauses in the doorway and looks back at me, his face once again a cold, handsome mask. The warmth from his near-smile is gone, leaving only a chilling certainty.
“Then my men will have made two mistakes tonight,” he says softly. “And I only tolerate one.”
The door closes, and the lock clicks into place, sealing me back inside my gilded prison. But everything has changed. The randomness is gone. The simple fear is gone. In its place is a terrible, complicated choice. And the chilling realization that my life now depends on my ability to spot a fake.
