Charlotte's POV
Three days after the gallery opening
I couldn't stop thinking about Mateo's painting—that elderly woman feeding pigeons in the Parisian square, painted with a reverence that made my chest ache. The catalog from his Paris show sat on my nightstand, opened to his artist statement about serving truth rather than commerce. How ironic that while he was learning to paint authentically, I was discovering that Thomas—the man I'd publicly rejected at that humiliating charity gala—had built his entire empire on lies.
The rain drummed against my Malibu windows as I stared at the photographs Detective Sarah Martinez had spread across my dining table. Each image felt like a dagger—Thomas entering luxury hotels with not one, but three different women over the past month. After I'd rejected his public proposal, he'd apparently wasted no time moving on to other conquests. But these affairs seemed almost quaint now, compared to what came next.
"There's more," Martinez said quietly, sliding another manila folder across the table. "Much more."
My hands trembled as I opened it. Financial records, wire transfers, shell company documents—a web of deceit so intricate it made the charity fraud we'd uncovered at Sterling Foundation look like petty theft.
"Money laundering?" I whispered, my voice barely audible above the storm outside.
"At least fifteen million that we can trace through his art acquisition business. Probably more." Martinez's expression was grim. "He's been washing dirty money through fake art sales and inflated appraisals. Some of the pieces he's given you? They're worthless forgeries used to justify massive money transfers."
I thought about the painting hanging in my guest room—a supposed Monet that Thomas had given me as a "friendship gift" after our very public breakup, claiming he wanted to remain close despite everything. Had it all been theater? Had I been living with a money laundering prop?
"The Beaufort Children's Foundation was just the beginning," Martinez continued. "We've found connections to at least six other charities he's systematically defrauded. The total is approaching twenty-three million dollars."
Twenty-three million. Money donated by people who thought they were helping children, funding after-school programs, providing meals for families in need. Instead, it had been funneled into Thomas's development projects and offshore accounts.
"Charlotte," Martinez leaned forward, her voice gentle but urgent. "Even though you rejected his proposal, you were still valuable to him. You were the perfect cover—a respected socialite with old money connections. Every charity gala, every society event where you appeared together as 'close friends'... you were unknowingly providing legitimacy to a criminal empire."
The words hit me like physical blows. I remembered the Pembertons' anniversary party, overhearing Thomas mention "keeping the foundation numbers clean." At the time, I'd thought he was just being thorough. Now I realized I'd been witnessing criminal conspiracy.
My phone buzzed. A text from Thomas: Hope you're reconsidering us, darling. Dinner tomorrow?
I stared at the message, knowing he was probably texting from bed with Amber, the 23-year-old gallery assistant, still trying to manipulate me even after I'd publicly rejected him. Then I looked at the evidence of his crimes spread across my table. Something cold and sharp crystallized in my chest—not heartbreak anymore, but fury.
"What are my options?" I asked, my voice steady for the first time in weeks.
Mateo's POV
Same evening - Montmartre Studio, Paris
I was working on a new painting when the call came—Henri, collapsed at his apartment, rushed to Hôpital Saint-Louis. By the time I reached his bedside, the doctors had delivered their verdict: stage four pancreatic cancer, six months at most.
"Mon fils," he whispered, his weathered hand gripping mine with surprising strength. "I have something to tell you."
The exhibition at Galerie Morgane had been more successful than we'd dared hope. Three paintings sold on opening night, and now there were inquiries from collectors in London and New York. More importantly, there was an invitation that had arrived that morning—the Morrison Gallery in Los Angeles wanted to represent me, offering a solo exhibition in the spring.
"You must go," Henri said when I showed him the letter. "This is your moment."
"I'm not leaving you," I replied firmly. "The gallery can wait."
Henri's laugh turned into a cough. "Stubborn boy. You think I survived the war, raised six children, built a life from nothing, just to have you waste your talent sitting in a hospital?"
I thought about the letters I'd been writing—to my past, to my regrets, to Charlotte. Henri had been right about their therapeutic value. Writing without hope of response had forced me to confront truths I'd been avoiding. The real Charlotte wasn't the golden goddess I'd painted obsessively. She was a woman trapped in her own constraints, just as I had been in mine.
"The woman you wrote about," Henri said, as if reading my thoughts. "Charlotte. She's in Los Angeles, non?"
I nodded. I'd mentioned her in passing during one of our studio conversations, careful not to reveal too much.
"Perhaps this exhibition is fate giving you a second chance. Not to repeat old mistakes, but to meet as who you've both become."
Through the hospital window, I could see the lights of Paris stretching to the horizon. This city had taught me to paint truth instead of fantasy, to find dignity in ordinary moments, to create from authenticity rather than ambition. But Henri was right—it was time to take that growth into the world.
"What if I fail?" I asked.
"Then you fail magnificently," Henri whispered. "Like all great artists do, before they succeed."
I squeezed his hand, thinking about the painting I'd been working on—a self-portrait, but not the kind I used to paint. This one showed me as I really was: flawed, hopeful, finally comfortable in my own skin. It was the most honest work I'd ever created.
"I'll go," I said. "But I'm coming back. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
Henri smiled. "Write her a real letter this time. One you actually send."
Charlotte's POV
One week later - FBI Field Office, Los Angeles
I stood in the marble lobby, clutching my purse that now contained something more dangerous than credit cards and lipstick—a recording device that could bring down Thomas's criminal empire.
Agent Rebecca Walsh was younger than I'd expected, with sharp eyes and an efficient handshake. "Charlotte, thank you for coming in. I understand you're ready to cooperate fully?"
"I want immunity," I said without preamble. "Complete immunity, in writing, before I say another word."
"Given your level of cooperation and apparent lack of involvement in Thomas's crimes, we can make that work," Walsh replied. "But are you prepared for what this means? Wearing a wire, testifying, helping us gather evidence that could put him away for twenty years?"
I thought about the children who should have benefited from those stolen charity funds. I thought about Thomas trying to win me back while he built his criminal empire using my reputation for legitimacy. I thought about Mateo's artist statement: art should serve truth rather than commerce.
It was time I served truth too.
"Yes," I said, my voice strong and clear. "I'll do whatever it takes."
Mateo's POV
Same day - Airport, Paris
The letter was in my carry-on bag, addressed but never sent:
*Charlotte, I don't know if you'll remember me—the struggling artist who painted your portrait and probably made you uncomfortable with his obvious infatuation. I'm writing because I'm coming back to Los Angeles, not to chase old fantasies, but to show work that represents who I've become.
I hope you found your way out of whatever cage you were in, the way I found my way out of mine. Maybe we'll run into each other at a gallery opening. If we do, I promise to see you as you really are this time, not as a projection of my own desperate hopes.
I'd like that. M.*
Henri had been right. It was time to send a real letter.
I sealed it, wrote her name on the envelope, and dropped it in the airport mailbox before I could change my mind.
Los Angeles was waiting. But more importantly, I was finally ready for Los Angeles.
Charlotte's POV
That evening
I sat in my car outside Nobu Malibu, the recording device taped to my chest feeling impossibly light now—not like a burden, but like armor. Thomas thought this was a reconciliation dinner, a chance to win me back after the public embarrassment of my rejection.
My phone buzzed with a notification from my building's front desk: "Package delivery for Charlotte."
Curious, I drove home first to retrieve it. A thin envelope, hand-addressed, with a Paris postmark. My heart stopped when I saw the return address: M. Delacroix.
With shaking fingers, I opened it and read Mateo's letter. He was coming back to Los Angeles. He'd grown, changed, learned to paint truth. And somehow, without knowing anything about my situation, he'd written exactly what I needed to hear about finding ways out of cages.
I laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in months.
Tomorrow, I would bring down Thomas's criminal empire. Soon, I would be free of his manipulation, his attempts to use my reputation, this toxic relationship built on lies. And somewhere in Los Angeles, a man who'd learned to paint authentically would be showing work that represented who he'd become.
The timing was perfect. For the first time in my life, I was about to discover who I was too.
The recording device felt like a heartbeat against my chest as I drove back to the restaurant, ready to face Thomas one last time as his unknowing target.
By tomorrow, everything would change.