Chapter 2

For two days, I was paralyzed. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I just sat in my office, staring at the two sets of plans. My beautiful original, and Mark' s ugly, fraudulent copy. The construction was on hold, but the clock was ticking. Every day of delay cost me thousands of dollars in fees and penalties. I was trapped.

Mark held the only key. He was the one who submitted the plans, and only he could officially retract them and submit the correct ones without a long, drawn-out legal battle that I couldn't afford.

My mind raced through my options. Lawyers were slow and expensive. The contractor was sympathetic but legally bound to the plans they had. The realtor's association was a possibility, but that would be a slow, bureaucratic process too. I needed someone with influence, someone who could cut through the red tape with a single phone call.

And then, a name surfaced from the depths of my memory. Arthur Vance.

He was a legend. A titan in the art and architecture world. A renowned collector with a reputation for being brilliant, ruthless, and intensely private. He had also been my mentor during my graduate studies, taking a special interest in my work. But we had a falling out. I had accused his gallery of underpaying a young artist for a piece, and he had accused me of being a naive idealist who didn't understand the business. We hadn't spoken in three years.

He was my last resort. A desperate, long shot.

Finding a way to contact him was the first hurdle. His personal information was a fortress. I started with the public number for his main gallery in New York.

A crisp, professional voice answered. "Vance Gallery, how may I direct your call?"

"I'd like to speak to Arthur Vance, please. My name is Chloe Chen."

"Mr. Vance is unavailable. May I take a message?" the voice said, already dismissing me.

"It's extremely important. I'm a former student of his. He was my mentor."

"I see," the assistant said, though her tone suggested she didn't see at all. "I will pass along the message."

I knew it was a dead end. My message would end up in a digital trash can. I waited a day. Nothing. The silence from New York was as loud as the silence from Mark.

I tried a more direct approach. I called the gallery again, this time asking for the assistant by name, which I had found on the gallery's website.

"This is Chloe Chen again. I need to confirm that Mr. Vance received my message. The matter is time-sensitive and of a professional nature." I tried to sound important, official.

The assistant's voice was colder this time. "Ms. Chen, Mr. Vance's schedule is managed months in advance. He has received your message. If he wishes to respond, he will."

It was a polite, firm rejection. I was being stonewalled. The hope that had flickered inside me started to dim.

That night, unable to sleep, I fell down a rabbit hole of online research. I used my architectural skills, not for designing buildings, but for digging through public records, old articles, and social media. I searched for anything related to Arthur Vance. I wasn't looking for a phone number anymore. I was looking for a place. A time. An opportunity.

And then I found it. A small article in an obscure art world blog. Vance was hosting an exclusive, invitation-only opening for a new exhibition in two days. It was for his most valued clients and closest contacts. The guest list was a secret. Security would be tight.

But the article mentioned one detail. The catering company.

I spent the next hour using my design software to create a fake, but professional-looking, invoice for a company that supplied specialty lighting. I found the name of the catering manager on LinkedIn. I called the catering company's main line, my heart pounding.

"Hi, this is Chloe from Luminous Designs. I'm calling about the Vance Gallery event on Friday. We have a last-minute adjustment to our lighting plan, and I need to coordinate with your floor manager. Can you give me his direct cell?"

It was a long shot, a crazy idea. But the person on the other end was busy and didn't question it. They gave me the number.

I called the catering manager. I told him I was a freelance art critic who had been accidentally left off the guest list by Mr. Vance's assistant, and it was terribly embarrassing. I dropped the names of a few artists I knew he represented. I sounded frantic, apologetic, and important all at once.

He hesitated. "I really can't..."

"I understand," I cut in. "But Arthur will be furious with his staff if he finds out I was turned away. You know how he is about details."

That was the key. Everyone knew his reputation. The manager sighed.

"Okay, okay. Just check in with me at the service entrance. I'll walk you in. But if anyone asks, you're with me."

I had my way in. Now I just needed the one thing that might get him to listen. The one thing that connected us beyond our soured mentorship. I went to the wall in my apartment and carefully took down a small, abstract sculpture he had given me as a graduation gift. It was a chaotic swirl of welded metal, beautiful and severe. And on the bottom, almost invisible unless you knew exactly where to look, he had etched his signature. Not his full name, but a tiny, stylized 'AV'. It was our secret, a mark of his personal favor.

This was my only leverage. My only hope.