Page 37 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

She sat on the edge of my bed, her dark hair falling over her shoulder as she reached for my hand. Her fingers were soft, warm, tracing slow circles on my palm—comforting, careful. Even then, I knew it was a distraction, a way to soothe me before she told me what I wasn’t supposed to know.

"My father adored that painting," she murmured, her voice low, laced with grief.

“He used to say it was the soul of our family. I painted it when I was only 17 and it became the most important thing we owned.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

I had seen that smile before. The one she wore when she looked at old photographs, at things she had left behind but never forgotten.

I frowned, shifting closer. “Then why did you leave it behind?”

Her fingers stilled against my palm and she didn’t speak. She just watched me, her dark eyes soft, haunted.

"Because," she whispered, "I chose love over blood. The painting was stolen soon after that. Father always thought your dad was behind it. That he stole the painting just to spite him.”

“Did he?” I ask. I loved my dad, but I knew what kind of man he was.

“No,” she answered, a playful smile on her face, “I did. And I burnt it. This picture is the only proof of its existence.”

I didn’t understand then. Not really. But I do now. The painting wasn’t just some family treasure that reminded him of good times. It was a wound—a relic of a family divided by greed and power, a reminder of the legacy my mother tried to escape but never truly could.

And now, it’s the bait I need.

I blink back the past, pushing the memories down into the dark, locked away where they belong. The past is a distraction. And distractions get you killed.

Exhaling slowly, I turn my focus back to the painting in front of me.

Isabella’s work is unnervingly close to the original. Every delicate brushstroke, every precise shade of crimson, as if she had reached into the past and resurrected a phantom of history.

And now, it will become a weapon.

If I put Isabella’s painting up for auction, Samuel will come for it.

It’s not just a painting to him. It’s his grandfather’s legacy, the last piece of his family’s pride before my mother ripped it away. He’ll see it as an insult, a slap in the face.

He won’t be able to resist.

And when he takes the bait, he’ll expose himself.

My fingers tighten around the edge of the canvas, the faint scent of drying paint clinging to me. The plan is taking shape, solidifying in my mind, each move intentional. But it’s not enough to set the bait. I need the right stage.

Not just some underground deal. This has to be public. Loud. Unavoidable.

My first instinct is to call Nico, but I stop myself. This isn’t his world. He’s good at handling threats, securing shipments, pulling a trigger when necessary—but this? This requires someone else.

Someone with influence. Someone who owes me a favor.

I grab my phone and dial Oliver Devereaux.

He picks up on the second ring, his voice sharp, clipped. “Dominic?”

“We’re hosting an auction,” I say without preamble.

A beat of silence. Then—laughter.

“You’re joking.”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

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