Chapter 4

The Vance Gallery was a cathedral of modern art. Soaring white walls, polished concrete floors, and light so perfectly engineered it felt like a physical substance. The air hummed with the quiet, confident chatter of the city's elite. Women in designer dresses held glasses of champagne, and men in bespoke suits spoke in low, important tones. I felt completely out of place in my simple black dress, clutching a canvas tote bag.

I had slipped in through the service entrance as planned, my heart pounding. Now, I scanned the crowd, looking for Arthur Vance's familiar, severe face.

And then I saw him. Not Arthur, but Mark.

He was standing near the main installation, holding a glass of champagne, laughing with a small group of people. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit, a picture of success. He looked like he belonged here. How did he even get an invitation? He must have a client who was on the list. He was a parasite, latching onto anyone who could elevate him.

His eyes swept the room and landed on me. His smile vanished. A flicker of surprise, then irritation, crossed his face. He excused himself from his group and started walking toward me, a predator closing in.

"Chloe," he said, his voice a low hiss. "What are you doing here? This isn't your scene."

"I could ask you the same thing, Mark."

"I have clients here. I'm networking. Unlike you, I'm actually trying to build a career, not just play with my little dream houses."

The insult was meant to sting, to put me in my place. Before I could respond, a woman from his group, draped in jewels, drifted over.

"Mark, darling, is everything alright?" she asked, eyeing me with disdain.

"Everything's fine, Cynthia," he said, putting a possessive hand on her arm. "This is Chloe. An old... acquaintance. She was just leaving."

He was publicly dismissing me, trying to humiliate me in front of his wealthy new friends. The rumors were starting right here, right now. The narrative was being set: he was the successful one, I was the pathetic ex who couldn't let go.

I saw Arthur Vance then, across the room, holding court. He looked older, grayer, but just as imposing as I remembered. This was my moment. I had to get to him.

I ignored Mark and started to walk toward my old mentor. Mark moved to block me, his face twisting in anger.

"Don't you dare," he whispered furiously. "Don't you dare try to cause a scene and embarrass me."

"You're the one who should be embarrassed," I said, my voice low but firm. "You're a thief and a fraud."

His eyes darted to the tote bag in my hand. "What's in the bag?"

"Something to prove who the real artist is."

Panic flashed in his eyes. He must have thought I had the blueprints with me. He lunged for the bag.

"Let me see that!"

I pulled back, clutching the bag to my chest. "Get away from me!"

Our struggle drew attention. The quiet hum of the party faltered. Heads turned. I saw Arthur's gaze land on us, his brow furrowed in annoyance at the commotion.

"That's mine!" Mark suddenly yelled, pointing at my bag. His voice was loud, accusatory. "She stole that from my apartment! It was a gift from a client!"

The lie was so audacious, so complete, it took my breath away. He was trying to flip the entire script, to paint me as a thief in front of everyone. His friend, Cynthia, immediately took his side.

"I saw it at his place last week!" she chimed in, her voice shrill. "Mark, you have to call security! This woman is a kleptomaniac!"

The accusation hung in the air, ugly and shocking. People were staring openly now, whispering. My face burned with shame and rage.

Arthur Vance started walking toward us, his face a thunderous mask. He looked like a king whose banquet had been interrupted by peasants. He wasn't coming to save me. He was coming to restore order.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise. He wasn't looking at Mark or me, but at the scene itself, as if it were a stain on his perfect white gallery. He wanted it gone. He pointed a finger at Mark, then at me.

"You two. Out. Now."

It was a summary judgment. A dismissal. He hadn't asked what happened. He didn't care. He just wanted the problem removed. My heart sank. This was a disaster.

"Mr. Vance," Mark said, seizing the opportunity, his voice full of fake deference. "I am so sorry for this disruption. This woman, my ex-girlfriend, has been harassing me. She showed up here to cause trouble, and she has a piece of art that she stole from me."

Arthur's eyes, cold as chips of ice, finally settled on me. "Is this true?"

Before I could answer, Mark reached out and snatched the tote bag from my hand. He was faster and stronger. He pulled out the velvet-wrapped sculpture.

"This!" he declared, holding it up for Arthur to see. "This is mine."

The final, desperate move was made. The key piece of evidence was now literally in the hands of my enemy, who was claiming it as his own.