the front door, aren’t you?”

“I’m not just going to walk through the door, Celeste,” I said, stepping toward
the mirror and pulling my hair back into a severe, elegant knot. “I’m going to
burn the house down.”

The main hall of the Vale Auction House was a testament to old money and
carefully curated arrogance. The vaulted ceilings, adorned with intricate gold
leaf, echoed with the soft, sophisticated hum of a string quartet playing
Vivaldi. The air was thick with the scent of white roses, expensive champagne,
and the invisible, cloying perfume of hypocrisy.

I stood in the shadows of the mezzanine balcony, looking down at the crowd. The
room was packed with the city’s elite—billionaires, socialites, and men with
cold eyes who bought art not for its beauty, but for its utility in hiding
wealth.

And there he was.

Marcus stood on the mahogany podium, looking like a king surveying his conquered
territory. He wore a bespoke tuxedo, his hair perfectly coiffed. Beside him
stood Vivian, draped in a cascade of diamonds and a white silk dress that clung
to her fragile frame. She looked like an angel. She looked like a lie.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marcus’s voice boomed through the pristine acoustic
space, smooth and charismatic. “Tonight is not just a celebration of my upcoming
nuptials to my beautiful Vivian. It is a celebration of history. The piece we
are about to unveil—a recently recovered masterwork from the late Renaissance—is
the crown jewel of the Vale collection.”

He gestured to a massive canvas covered by a velvet drape on the stage. The
crowd murmured in anticipation.

I took a deep breath. The silk of my red dress whispered against my skin. I felt
a strange, terrifying calm wash over me. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold,
absolute certainty. I stepped out of the shadows and began my descent down the
grand marble staircase.

The click of my heels against the stone was the only sound I made, but in a room