I knew the painting was illegal the moment I saw it.
Not because of the signature—those could be forged.
Not because of the canvas—those could be aged.
It was the restoration.
The brushwork underneath the visible layer was too careful. Too reverent.
Someone hadn't just restored this painting.
They had preserved it like a secret.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I leaned closer.
"Tell me what you see."
The voice came from behind me. Calm. Low. Male.
Not asking for permission.
I turned slowly.
He stood there like he had always belonged in the room—tailored black suit, no visible jewelry, hands relaxed at his sides.
Not smiling. Not threatening.
Just… watching.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Someone who paid for your time," he replied. "And prefers honesty."
That was my first mistake.
I answered.
"The pigments are wrong," I said. "Modern binders. But the technique beneath—" I stopped myself. Too late.
His eyes sharpened.
Predatory, but quiet.
"So," he said, "it isn't what it pretends to be."
"No," I said. "And whoever restored it knew exactly what they were doing."
Silence stretched between us.
Heavy. Measuring.
Then he smiled.
Not warmly.
Possessively.
"You're better than they said."
They.
That was my second mistake—being curious instead of afraid.
"I didn't agree to an audience," I said.
"You agreed to an evaluation," he replied. "This is it."
He stepped closer.
Not invading my space.
Claiming it.
I should have felt intimidated.
Instead, I felt seen.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I hesitated. A habit born from years of learning that names created obligations.
"Carlina."
He tasted it silently.
"And you are?" I asked.
"Carolus Vale."
The name meant nothing to me.
At the time.
He gestured toward the painting.
"Tell me," he said. "If I acquire this, what am I really buying?"
I swallowed.
"A lie," I said. "Wrapped around a truth someone was willing to kill for."
Something dark flickered across his face.
Approval.
"Good," he said. "You understand value."
I closed my notebook.
"That's my assessment."
"And yet," he said softly, "you're still here."
I hated that he was right.
"I don't work for private collectors," I said.
"You do now," he replied, just as calmly. "Temporarily."
"No."
He tilted his head.
The room seemed to recalibrate around him.
"You misunderstand," he said. "This wasn't an offer."
Anger flared. "Then what is this?"
"A beginning."
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
An email notification.
Unknown Sender.
Subject: Temporary Appointment — Approved.
My breath caught.
"I didn't authorize this," I said.
"No," Carolus agreed. "I did."
I stared at him.
Finally—finally—fear crept in.
"That's illegal," I said.
"So is the painting," he replied. "Yet here we are."
I should have left.
I should have called someone.
I should have burned the file already forming in my inbox.
Instead, I asked the worst possible question.
"Why me?"
Carolus looked at the painting, then back at me.
"Because," he said, "you didn't look away."
The words settled into my chest like a brand.
"I'm not afraid of you," I said quietly. A lie. Or maybe a challenge.
For the first time, Carolus Vale hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Just enough.
And in that pause, I understood something terrifying.
This man did not collect art.
He collected people.
And somehow—
without touching me,
without asking,
without permission—
I had already been placed among his most valuable pieces.
Outside the gallery, sirens wailed faintly.
Somewhere far too close.
Carolus glanced at the door, then back at me.
"You should go," he said. "For now."
"For now?" I echoed.
His gaze lingered on my face—unblinking, proprietary.
"Enjoy your freedom," he said. "It won't last."
As I walked away, my phone vibrated again.
A second email.
Attachment: Transaction_Record_0927.jpg
I hadn't downloaded anything.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
One photograph.
One timestamp.
One signature I recognized.
Proof.
If I reported it, Carolus Vale would fall.
If I didn't—
I might fall with him.
And somewhere behind me,
I knew—
he was already watching.
I knew the painting was illegal the moment I saw it.
Not because of the signature—those could be forged.
Not because of the canvas—those could be aged.
It was the restoration.
The brushwork beneath the visible layer was too careful. Too reverent.
Someone hadn't just restored this painting.
They had preserved it like a secret.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I leaned closer.
"Tell me what you see."
The voice came from behind me. Calm. Low. Male.
Not asking for permission.
I turned slowly.
He stood there like he had always belonged in the room—tailored black suit, no visible jewelry, hands relaxed at his sides.
Not smiling. Not threatening.
Just… watching.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Someone who paid for your time," he replied. "And prefers honesty."
That was my first mistake.
I answered.
"The pigments are wrong," I said. "Modern binders. But the technique beneath—" I stopped myself. Too late.
His eyes sharpened.
Predatory, but quiet.
"So," he said, "it isn't what it pretends to be."
"No," I said. "And whoever restored it knew exactly what they were doing."
Silence stretched between us.
Heavy. Measuring.
Then he smiled.
Not warmly.
Possessively.
"You're better than they said."
They.
That was my second mistake—being curious instead of afraid.
"I didn't agree to an audience," I said.
"You agreed to an evaluation," he replied. "This is it."
He stepped closer.
Not invading my space.
Claiming it.
I should have felt intimidated.
Instead, I felt seen.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I hesitated. A habit born from years of learning that names created obligations.
"Carlina."
He tasted it silently, as if committing the sound to memory.
"And you are?" I asked.
"Carolus Vale."
The name meant nothing to me.
At the time.
He gestured toward the painting.
"Tell me," he said. "If I acquire this, what am I really buying?"
I swallowed.
"A lie," I said. "Wrapped around a truth someone was willing to kill for."
Something dark flickered across his face.
Approval.
"Good," he said. "You understand value."
I closed my notebook.
"That's my assessment."
"And yet," he said softly, "you're still here."
I hated that he was right.
"I don't work for private collectors," I said.
"You do now," he replied. "Temporarily."
"No."
He tilted his head.
The air shifted, subtle but unmistakable, as if the room itself had recalculated its center of gravity around him.
"You misunderstand," he said. "This wasn't an offer."
Anger flared. "Then what is this?"
"A beginning."
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
An email notification.
Unknown Sender.
Subject: Temporary Appointment — Approved.
My breath caught.
"I didn't authorize this," I said.
"No," Carolus agreed. "I did."
"That's illegal."
"So is the painting," he replied evenly. "Yet here we are."
I searched his face for arrogance.
There was none.
Only certainty.
I should have left.
I should have called someone.
I should have deleted the file already forming in my inbox.
Instead, I asked the worst possible question.
"Why me?"
Carolus looked at the painting, then back at me.
"Because," he said, "you didn't look away."
The words settled into my chest like a brand.
"I'm not afraid of you," I said quietly.
A lie.
Or maybe a challenge.
For the first time, Carolus Vale hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Just enough.
And in that pause, I understood something terrifying.
This man did not collect art.
He collected people.
"Go," he said suddenly, glancing toward the exit. "Now."
Outside the gallery, sirens wailed faintly—too close for comfort.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because," he replied, eyes darkening, "others have noticed you."
I didn't ask who.
I walked out with my pulse pounding, the echo of his presence following me down the corridor like a shadow that refused to detach.
My phone vibrated again.
Another email.
Attachment: Transaction_Record_0927.jpg
I hadn't downloaded anything.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
One photograph.
One timestamp.
One signature I recognized.
Proof.
If I reported it, Carolus Vale would fall.
Hard.
Publicly.
Irrevocably.
But as I stared at the image, another truth surfaced—cold and undeniable.
If I did nothing, I would become complicit.
A part of his world.
My phone vibrated once more.
Unknown Sender.
A single line of text.
Enjoy your freedom, Carlina.
It won't last.
I stopped walking.
The city moved around me—cars, voices, lights—but for a moment, everything else felt distant.
I didn't turn around.
I didn't need to.
Somewhere behind me, I knew—
Carolus Vale was already watching.