Eva
The lock clicks. The sound is an exclamation point on his threat. I am alone again in the silent, opulent space. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic prisoner. My life now hinges on one man’s tolerance for mistakes. He only tolerates one. And I am the second.
I don’t sleep. I sit on the silk comforter, watching the city lights blur into a watercolor painting as my eyes burn with exhaustion. Every sound in the building, every distant siren, makes me jump. The sun rises, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and soft orange. It feels like watching the dawn of my own execution.
Morning comes not with a bang, but a quiet hum. A panel I hadn’t noticed beside the door slides open, revealing a tray. Poached eggs, avocado toast, a silver pot of coffee. The food is a mockery. A last meal served on fine china. I ignore it. My stomach is a knot of acid and dread.
Hours pass. The silence is a physical weight, pressing down on me. I pace, my bare feet making no sound on the marble. I am a ghost in a cage. Just as the afternoon sun slants across the floor, the lock clicks again. My head snaps toward the door.
He enters, just as before. Today he’s not wearing a suit jacket, just a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos coiling around one wrist. He looks less like a CEO and more like what he is: dangerous.
He glances at the untouched breakfast tray. “You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Fear is a poor substitute for nutrition, Miss Chandler.” He walks to the coffee table and places a thin, black tablet on its surface. It looks stark and modern against the white marble. “I’ve had some time to consider our mutual problem.”
“Your problem,” I correct him. “You kidnapped me. That’s not a mutual activity.”
His lips thin into a hard line. He doesn't appreciate being corrected. “Your presence here is a problem for us both. I am proposing a solution that benefits us both.”
I stare at him, my arms crossed tight against my chest. “The only solution I’m interested in is the one where I walk out that door.”
“That is part of the solution I am offering.”
My breath catches. Hope is a stupid, treacherous thing. I refuse to let it take root.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, his voice calm, reasonable. It’s more terrifying than when he was angry. “You just have to listen. As I told you, I have an important business arrangement. An auction. There is a painting I intend to acquire. ‘The Lost Star of St. Petersburg’.”
The name hits me like a physical blow. It’s a legend. A myth. A holy grail for art historians. “That’s impossible. The Lost Star was destroyed in a fire in 1918.”
“It appears the rumors of its demise were exaggerated,” he says dryly. “It has been authenticated by Julian Croft.”
Now I feel a jolt of pure, academic shock. Julian Croft. The man is a rock star in the art world. His books are required reading. He’s also, in my private and unpublished opinion, a lazy, arrogant fraud who relies on reputation instead of methodology.
“Croft,” I say, the name tasting like ash. “He’s a showman.”
Nathan’s eyes gleam with a new light. He is watching my reaction closely. “You don’t approve of his work?”
“His work is built on assumptions. He authenticates the story, not the canvas. It’s a weakness.”
“A weakness I intend to exploit. I require a second opinion. A more… meticulous one.” He gestures to the tablet. “I am offering you a position. A short-term contract as my art consultant.”
The words are so insane, I almost laugh. “A contract? You can’t be serious. This isn’t a job interview.”
“Think of it as one,” he counters smoothly. “The signing bonus is your continued existence.”
The cold reality of his words washes over me. This isn’t a negotiation between equals. It never will be.
“What do you want, exactly?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“I want you to examine the painting. Privately. I need to know, with absolute certainty, if it is real or a forgery.”
“And if I do this for you?”
“You will be compensated,” he says. “I will deposit five million dollars into an account of your choosing.”
The number is so large it’s meaningless. It’s monopoly money. A fantasy.
“I don’t want your money.”
“Everyone wants money,” he dismisses. “But that is not the primary benefit. Once the auction is concluded, and my business with the Rossi family is finished, you will be free.”
“Free?” I repeat the word. It sounds foreign.
“A private jet will take you anywhere in the world you wish to go. A new identity, a new life, should you want one. Or you can return to your old life, five million dollars richer, and tell everyone you took an impromptu vacation. The choice will be yours.”
I walk to the window, turning my back on him. I stare down at the city, at the thousands of people living normal lives, worrying about rent and exams. Lives that were mine just yesterday.
“Why should I trust you?” I ask the glass.
“Because I am a man of my word. And because the alternative is unacceptable for both of us.”
“And the alternative is… what?” I turn to face him, forcing him to say it.
His gaze is flat, unwavering. “You remain a liability. A mistake that needs to be erased. I have a code that prevents me from harming innocents, Miss Chandler. But my associates are not burdened by such sentiment. They will see it as a simple matter of business.”
The threat hangs in the air, clean and sharp as a guillotine’s blade.
“So I help a criminal verify his stolen art, or I die.”
“I am not a thief,” he says, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “I am a collector. And this is a legitimate, if private, auction. I am simply offering you a chance to apply your unique expertise to a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
He’s twisting it. Framing it as some kind of academic challenge. The worst part is, a small, treacherous piece of my mind, the part that Professor Albright sneered at, is intrigued. To see the Lost Star. To test my theories on a legendary piece. To prove Julian Croft wrong.
“This is insane,” I say, running a hand through my tangled hair.
“It is our reality,” he replies. “These are the terms. Your expertise for your freedom. Do we have an agreement?”
I look at him, this monster in a bespoke shirt, who holds my entire world in the palm of his hand. There is no real choice here. There is only survival. But I will not be a passive victim. If I am to be a pawn in his game, I will be the most useful, most demanding pawn he has ever seen.
“If I do this,” I say, my voice gaining strength. “I have conditions.”
He raises an eyebrow, surprised and, I think, a little impressed. “Go on.”
“I need a proper lab. A microscope, solvents, full spectrum lighting. I need access to every digital archive there is. The international museum databases, auction records, everything. I need my research notes from my apartment.”
I expect him to argue, to refuse. Instead, he nods slowly.
“Done. A lab will be set up for you. A secure terminal will be provided with access to whatever you need. My men will retrieve your research materials.”
He makes it sound so simple. He can snap his fingers and a life’s worth of work will appear. The thought is as terrifying as it is seductive.
“And I will not be kept in this… suite,” I say, gesturing around the beautiful room. “This is a prison. If I am to work for you, I want a workspace. A library. Something functional.”
“Acceptable,” he says immediately. “I have a residence two floors down. There is a library and a study you can use. You will be moved this evening.”
My heart jumps into my throat. Closer to him. I’m not sure if that’s safer or infinitely more dangerous.
“One last thing,” I say, meeting his gaze. “While I am working for you, I am your consultant. Not your prisoner. You will treat me as such.”
A long silence stretches between us. He studies my face, his stormy eyes searching for something. Finally, a slow, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. It does not look kind.
“You have courage, Eva Chandler. I can respect that.” The use of my first name is a shock, an intimacy I didn't ask for. “Very well. You have my word. While you are under my employ, you will be treated as a valued consultant. But do not forget, this arrangement stands only as long as you are useful. And it ends the moment I believe you are lying to me.”
He extends a hand. It’s not a kind gesture. It’s the sealing of a contract. A deal with the devil. My hand is trembling, but I force it forward, my small, cold fingers engulfed by his warm, strong grip. His skin is smooth, his handshake firm. Electric.
“Do we have a deal?” he asks, his voice a low murmur.
My throat is dry. I look from his hand to his unreadable eyes. This is the moment my life pivots, turning down a dark, unknown road. I am trading one cage for another, but this new one comes with a key. A key I have to earn.
“Yes,” I whisper. The word feels like a surrender and a declaration of war all at once.
“Good.” He releases my hand. “Get some rest. Your new life begins tomorrow.”
