Chapter 5 The Price That Change Everything

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The gallery was quiet when I walked in, the kind of stillness that carried the weight of desperation. Paintings leaned against the walls, waiting for a home. Sophia stood at the center of the chaos, sleeves rolled up, her focus sharp as she directed the workers. She had fire, I'd give her that, but fire alone wasn't enough to save her.

She barely acknowledged me as I entered, her attention locked on a clipboard. "What do you want, Damon?" she asked, her tone clipped.

"To check on my investment," I replied smoothly, leaning casually against the desk.

She looked up, her eyes narrowing. "It's not your investment yet."

"Not officially," I said with a smirk. "But you're running out of time to keep it that way."

I let my words hang in the air, watching as her shoulders tensed. "Have you given any thought to the contract? Because you have twenty-four hours to respond," I said, keeping my tone smooth.

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought she might snap. But instead, she placed the clipboard down with exaggerated care and turned to face me fully. "I don't trust you." Damon

"You don't have to," I replied. "You just need to trust that I know what I'm doing."

She crossed her arms, glaring at me. "You make it sound like I don't have a choice."

"You don't," I said plainly, letting the truth hit her. "Not if you want to keep this gallery open. You're drowning, Sophia, and I'm your lifeline. But lifelines have strings attached."

Her lips parted as if to argue, but she stopped herself. I could see the conflict in her eyes-the struggle between pride and practicality. It was almost endearing, watching her try to find a way out of the inevitable.

"I'll think about it," she said finally, her voice tight.

I smiled. "Good. But don't think too long. Deadlines have a funny way of sneaking up on people."

She didn't respond, turning her back to me as if the conversation were over. It wasn't, but I let her have the illusion of control-for now.

Later that night, in the quiet of my office, I reviewed the latest findings from my investigator. The file in front of me was thick, filled with old maps, property records, and notes that hinted at something far more valuable than the gallery itself. Jonathan Blackwood hadn't just been an artist; he'd been a man with secrets.

The gallery wasn't just a building. It was a key.

To what, exactly, I hadn't pieced together yet. But the clues were there-cryptic references to "buried assets," the strange map that centered on the property, and the whispers of deals made decades ago.

My father had been obsessed with the Blackwood's before his death, and now I was beginning to see why.

My phone buzzed on the desk, pulling me from my thoughts. A text from my investigator: This isn't just about money. Call me ASAP.

Intriguing. I took another sip of scotch, the amber liquid burning pleasantly as I leaned back in my chair. Whatever this was, it was worth far more than the gallery's struggling balance sheet.

The next morning, I arrived at the gallery early, the anticipation thrumming in my veins. Sophia was already there, unpacking a shipment of artwork with the same stubborn determination that had always fascinated me.

"You're here early," she said without looking up.

"Couldn't stay away," I replied, stepping closer.

She ignored me, carefully inspecting a canvas before setting it aside. "What do you want, Damon?"

"To talk," I said, lowering my voice just enough to make her look at me. "About your father's legacy."

Her hands stilled, and she glanced up, her expression wary. "What about it?"

"I want to help you protect it," I said, the lie slipping easily off my tongue. "But we need to face reality. The gallery can't survive the way it is. If you want to keep it, you have to adapt."

She straightened, crossing her arms. "And by 'adapt,' you mean handing control over to you?"

I smiled, tilting my head slightly. "Let's not make this more dramatic than it needs to be. This isn't about control; it's about survival. I can give you the resources and connections you need to keep this place afloat. All you have to do is let me help you."

Her gaze hardened. "And what's in it for you?"

"Does it matter?" I countered. "What matters is that I can deliver results. Can you?"

Her silence was answer enough. She turned away, focusing on the artwork again as if that would somehow shield her from the truth.

"You have until tomorrow," I reminded her. "Don't waste your chance, Sophia. Opportunities like this don't come twice."

That night, as the city lights glittered outside my penthouse windows, I returned to the file on my desk. The pieces were starting to come together, forming a picture that was far bigger than I'd expected.

The gallery wasn't just a business opportunity-it was a puzzle. A key to something my father had been searching for. Something Jonathan Blackwood had protected until his dying breath.

I traced the edges of the map, my mind racing. There was still so much I didn't know, but one thing was certain: whatever secrets the Blackwood family had buried, they were within my reach now.

Sophia was just another piece in the game, one I would move as needed to uncover the truth. She thought this was about saving her father's legacy, but I saw the bigger picture.

Pouring another glass of scotch, I let a satisfied smile play on my lips. The game was just beginning, and I was already two steps ahead.