The approaching footsteps were quick, heavy, and purposeful—not the shuffle of a panicked guest.
Julian Blackwood didn't waste time on questions. Rory's urgent whisper about the fake painting had overridden his professional control, striking a chord of raw instinct he hadn't known he possessed. The alarm was still shrieking, but the sound was distant now, muffled by his own adrenaline.
He released his suffocating grip on Rory, but only to grab her wrist, pulling her behind the heavy velvet curtain that shielded the medieval acquisitions display. The space was cramped, suffocating them together. Rory could feel the heat radiating from his body, the precise tailoring of his tuxedo pressed against her cheek. This was beyond the contract's mandate for 'public displays'; this was survival.
"Stay silent," he commanded, his voice a barely audible hiss against her ear.
Two figures—security guards, judging by the bulk of their silhouettes—brushed past the curtain opening. They were shining powerful beams into the darkness, but the shadows cast by the large velvet folds offered perfect cover.
Rory felt a moment of pure, dangerous clarity. This was her chance.
She used the distraction of the guards to leverage her wrist out of Julian's grasp, then shifted, pressing her back against the cold, unseen wall. She wasn't running; she was creating space.
"The painting, Julian," she whispered fiercely. "If that's a professional hit, they're not here for the tapestries. The small Italian piece is the weak link. It's either a decoy or it's concealing something invaluable."
"I don't need your professional assessment of a minor forgery right now, Rory," Julian snarled, his eyes scanning the space outside the curtain line. "I need compliance."
"Compliance gets us caught," she retorted. "Think! Why would the notorious Blackwood Collection feature a verifiable 16th-century Italian forgery? It violates every rule of your image. Unless it's a distraction you want people to find."
Julian froze. His breathing hitched slightly. Rory saw the exact moment her words, laced with cold logic, cut through his protective fury. She wasn't panicking; she was analyzing the flaw in his empire.
The two guards retreated, their heavy steps fading into the general confusion. The emergency lighting kicked on, bathing the hall in a harsh, sickly yellow glow.
Julian released a slow, controlled breath, the sound like sandpaper against stone. He turned, the space between them virtually nonexistent. His eyes, usually shielded by indifference, were blazing with a raw, dangerous intensity.
"You knew it was a fake immediately," he stated, his voice tight. "At the Gala, with Lydia Thorne's brooch, it was an observation. With my private display, it's a threat. You are not a mid-level restorer, Rory. Who are you?"
He didn't touch her, but the demand was more physical than any embrace. The accusation hung heavy, smelling of fear and betrayal.
Rory met his gaze without flinching, using her professional calm as a weapon. "I am a woman who signed a contract for access. My identity, Julian, is only relevant to the quality of my work. And my work is to discern the genuine from the fraudulent. Right now, there is a forgery hanging in your display—a forgery that, according to your contract, is now mine to examine. I suggest we prioritize its security."
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the smooth skin. He looked ready to break the contract then and there, driven by the violation of his control. But the threat of public exposure and the urgent need to maintain his façade—especially with the current chaos—held him back.
"Fine," he bit out, the word dripping with pure venom. "You want access? You'll have it. But if you touch one thing that isn't the damn painting, the contract is voided, and you'll find out what kind of disaster the Dark Prince can truly create."
The ballroom remained half-dark, filled with buzzing whispers. Julian, mastering his face back into the familiar mask of aloof authority, grabbed Rory's hand this time—a firm, guiding grip—and strode out from behind the curtain, acting as if the entire incident had been a minor inconvenience.
"Apologies, Mr. Sterling," Julian said smoothly to the foundation head, who looked pale and bewildered. "A minor security breach. We'll handle the insurance details later. My wife and I need to retire. She's been rather shaken."
He didn't wait for a response, pulling Rory through the remaining crowd and out a side door, his pace relentless.
They arrived back at the penthouse in chilling silence. Julian didn't speak in the car, nor did he release her hand until they reached the privacy of his living room, where the silence was broken only by the hum of the city.
He went straight to the penthouse bar, poured himself three fingers of amber liquid, and swallowed half of it in one gulp.
"Go to your room, Rory," he commanded, without turning around. "And forget everything you saw tonight. The breach, the painting, all of it."
But Rory was too close to her goal. She was breathing heavily, partly from the adrenaline and partly from the furious need to complete her mission.
"I can't forget it, Julian," she said, her voice softer now, less antagonistic, but more resolute. "I signed a contract not for money, but for the chance to access the truth you've been hiding. That painting is a piece of the puzzle. Give me thirty minutes in the archive room. I want the acquisition file for that Italian piece. Now."
Julian finally turned, his eyes narrowed with lethal suspicion. He placed the heavy glass tumbler on the marble counter, the click echoing in the vast room.
"You speak of 'truth' and 'honesty' while operating under a contractual deception," he accused, stepping slowly towards her. "You claim to want a historical item, but you know secrets that are professionally damaging to me. Your sincerity is as fraudulent as that painting."
He stopped directly in front of her. The cold distance between them had completely vanished. He was too close; she could feel the heat and raw power of his presence.
"What is your game, Rory?" he pressed, his voice low and intimate, the sound vibrating the air around them. "And why, when I told you to stay quiet and safe, did you break protocol not to save your life, but to give me intelligence on a minor forgery?"
Rory felt a sharp, intense conflict bloom in her chest. She needed to lie, to maintain the cover. But she also needed to give him a piece of truth, enough to secure the access she craved.
"Because the integrity of art matters to me, Julian," she whispered, her focus locking on his eyes. "And that forgery, in your name, compromises the entire collection, including the item I truly seek. I hate deception in history, even if I'm participating in it now. I need to know what you're protecting."
His eyes dropped from hers, moving slowly over her face, her collarbone, the rapid pulse in her neck. He wasn't looking at her as a business partner anymore. He was looking at her as a complication—a beautiful, dangerous, and utterly unpredictable flaw in his perfect world.
He reached out, his hand hovering inches from her cheek. Rory felt her breath catch in her throat. This was the moment of violation, the moment the boundaries of the contract would be tested.
He didn't touch her. Instead, his fingers brushed the collar of her dress, and he gently, almost tenderly, adjusted the silk that had crumpled during their frantic escape.
"You are relentless," he murmured, his voice softer, edged with a weariness she hadn't heard before.
He stepped back, shattering the fragile tension. He sighed, running a hand through his dark, immaculate hair.
"Fine. You want to audit my life? Do it. Davies keeps the acquisition archives locked in the library vault. You have the access code for your room; use it on the vault. But let me be perfectly clear, Rory Vance: If you find what you're looking for, and if it compromises me, I will ensure you regret the day you ever signed that contract. Go."
Rory nodded, a quick, efficient gesture. Her victory felt hollow, laced with a terrifying undercurrent of Julian's unleashed power.
She turned and practically fled, not toward her room, but toward the library.
The library was cavernous and cold, illuminated by a single, focused spotlight above a massive, dark wooden desk. The vault was hidden behind a rotating bookcase. Rory found the small keypad and entered the code Julian had given her for her own quarters. It worked. The bookcase slid open with a soft, mechanical whir.
Inside, the vault was small but intimidating, lined with rows of numbered, leather-bound binders. She found the section labeled 'European Medieval Acquisitions - 1940-1960.'
Her fingers, despite her professional control, trembled as she pulled out the binder for 1952. This was the key. This held the secret to how the Blackwood family had acquired the Tears of Saint Cecilia.
She opened the file. The documents were in crisp German, detailing the purchase of several large, unremarkable religious artifacts from a Swiss broker. Everything seemed correct, painstakingly documented, and utterly dull.
Rory flipped through the pages quickly, her eyes scanning for anomalies. A price discrepancy. An unusual shipping manifest. Something that proved coercion or theft.
Then, she saw it. Not in the main document, but a small, handwritten note tacked to the back of the file, a tiny piece of parchment. It was Julian's grandfather's handwriting—a frantic, barely legible scribble.
"The deal is done. The Cross is secured. The problem is the girl. She knows too much. Needs to be taken care of. Permanently."
Rory's breath hitched. The Cross is secured. The Tears. But "The problem is the girl."
It wasn't a historical crime she was chasing. It was a potential murder.
A shadow fell across the vault door. Rory spun around, binder clutched to her chest.
Julian was standing in the library doorway, backlit by the distant light of the living room, his face obscured by the darkness, but his posture radiating silent, intense scrutiny.
"Find what you were looking for, Rory?" he asked, his voice low, devoid of emotion.
Rory felt the cold parchment burn against her skin. She had found her answer, but she had also found a terrifying, unspoken clause in the contract.
The Blackwood family wasn't just hiding a piece of art. They were hiding a body.