The high of the gala crashed into a cold, gray reality the following morning. Silas had retreated to his study, and for the first time, the door was locked.
Elara stood in the hallway, her hand hovering over the handle. She could hear the faint sound of glass breaking inside. Not a priceless vase this time—it sounded like a tumbler.
"Silas?" she called out. "Henderson said you skipped breakfast."
"Go away, Elara," his voice came through the wood, sharp and distorted. "The contract doesn't require you to be a nurse."
"No, but it requires us to be a 'unit.' Marcus is downstairs."
The silence that followed was heavy. A moment later, the lock clicked. Elara pushed the door open. The study was in near-total darkness, the heavy velvet curtains drawn shut. Silas was sitting behind his desk, his head in his hands.
"He brought a gift," Silas rasped, not looking up. "A 'gesture of goodwill' for the engagement. It's sitting in the foyer."
"What is it?"
"A gallery piece," Silas said, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "A collection of sketches by an artist I used to collect before the... before the gray took over. He wants me to authenticate them. In front of him. Now."
Elara felt a chill. Marcus wasn't just suspicious; he was hunting. "He knows you can't see the details."
"He suspects," Silas corrected, finally looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused. "If I refuse, it looks like I'm hiding something. If I try and fail, he'll have the proof he needs to file for an emergency board hearing to strip my power."
Elara walked over to him, leaning across the desk until she was in his limited line of sight. "Then we don't fail. Give me five minutes with those sketches alone. I'm a restorer, Silas. I know every brushstroke of that artist. I'll describe every detail to you via a hidden earpiece."
Silas reached out, his hand finding hers on the desk. His grip was almost desperate. "And if the signal drops? If he catches you?"
"Then we go down together," Elara said firmly. "But I'm not letting that vulture take your life's work because of a flickering light."
The Confrontation
Ten minutes later, Elara stood by the staircase, watching Marcus unveil three charcoal sketches on easels in the marble foyer. Silas stood beside him, his expression a mask of bored arrogance, though Elara could see the slight tremor in his jaw.
Elara adjusted the tiny, flesh-colored bud in her ear, hidden by her hair. She held her phone casually, her camera pointed at the art.
"The first one on the left," Elara whispered into her mic from the kitchen doorway. "It's 'The Mourning Willow.' Look for the signature in the bottom right—it's slightly smudged. The third branch from the top has a hidden bird motif."
Silas stepped forward, his hand gliding toward the first sketch. He didn't hesitate. "Ah, 'The Mourning Willow,'" he said smoothly. "I see you found the one with the smudged signature. The bird motif in the third branch is a nice touch, Marcus. A bit cliché for his early period, don't you think?"
Marcus's smile faltered. "Impressive. And the middle one?"
"It's a fake, Silas," Elara's voice hissed in his ear. "The paper grain is horizontal; the artist only used vertical grain for this series. The charcoal is too compressed."
Silas didn't even lean in. He barely glanced at the middle easel. "The middle one is an insult, Marcus. Tell your dealer he's a hack. The paper grain is wrong, and the charcoal lacks the artist's signature breath. Take it out of my house."
Marcus turned red. He stepped closer to the third sketch, his eyes darting between Silas and the door where Elara was hidden. Suddenly, he reached out and flicked the light switch, plunging the foyer into shadow.
"What about the lighting, Silas?" Marcus challenged. "It's a bit dim in here, isn't it? Tell me about the third one... in the dark."
Silas froze. The sudden change in light had turned his vision into a smear of black and ink.
"Silas, don't move," Elara whispered, her heart stopping. "It's a portrait of his mother. The eyes. Focus on the eyes."
"It's a portrait of your mother, Marcus," Silas said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped forward through the dark, guided only by the sound of Elara's breathing in his ear. He stopped perfectly in front of the sketch. "Specifically, the look she gave you the day you lost your first internship. Those cold, disappointed eyes. Some things are easier to see when the lights are low. Don't you agree?"
Marcus stared at Silas, stunned. The silence stretched until Marcus finally signaled his men to pack the easels.
"You win this round, cousin," Marcus spat, his voice trembling with rage. "But no one's vision is perfect forever."
As the front door slammed shut, Silas collapsed against the wall, his lungs burning. Elara ran to him, catching him before he hit the floor.
"We did it," she breathed.
Silas didn't answer. He just pulled her into his arms, hiding his face in her hair. For the first time, he wasn't the CEO, and she wasn't the debtor. They were just two people clinging to each other in the dark.
"Stay," he whispered. "Tonight. Don't go to your room. Stay where I can... where I know you're there."