Page 60 of His to Possess
Alain leaned forward, his voice low. "Evidence, my dear Laurel. Evidence that not only ties you more deeply to our little incident in Paris, but also reveals the location of the stolen artwork."
"This is impossible. I had nothing to do with…"
"Oh, but these documents say otherwise," he interrupted, tapping the folder. "And they're very convincing. The authorities would certainly think so."
The blood drained from my face as his words sank in. My hands shook as I closed the folder, pushing it away from me like it was poisonous. Rage bubbled up inside me, threatening to spill over.
"You're the one who switched the real pieces with fakes! You set me up!" I hissed, leaning across the table. My voice was low, barely controlled as I fought to keep from causing a scene. The back of my eyes burned. I had escaped to Chicago so I would no longer have to deal with this, yet here I was again, stuck with the same old nightmare. And of course, Alain was the one to blame. He was like a pest I was unable to pluck out of my life, no matter how hard I tried.
His smile stayed as it was. If anything, it grew wider, more predatory. "That may be true," he said, "but who do you think they'll believe? The art world darling who's already been tainted by scandal, or the perceived victim who's come forward with new evidence?"
His words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. He was right, and we both knew it. My reputation was still fragile, held together by threads of hard work and determination. This fabricated evidence could easily reignite the scandal, destroying everything I had fought so hard to rebuild.
"What do you want?" I asked. I hated how weak I sounded, how easily he managed to back me into a corner.
He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with triumph. "I'm glad you asked, my dear Laurel. It's quite simple, really. I need your expertise for a special project I'm working on."
I narrowed my eyes, suspicion crawling up my spine. "What kind of project?"
"It involves procuring and authenticating some very rare, very valuable pieces," he said. "That's all you need to know. Your skills would be invaluable."
The implication was clear. He wanted me to help him steal and fence stolen artwork. My stomach churned at the thought.
"And if I refuse?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
His smile turned cold. "Then I'm afraid these documents might find their way into some very interested hands. Your career, your freedom—it would all be over in an instant. Even more so than before you left Paris, mon chéri. And that's the last thing I want for you."
I felt trapped, cornered like an animal. The café suddenly felt too small and too crowded. I wanted to run, to escape, but I knew there was nowhere to go. Alain had me exactly where he wanted me, and we both knew it.
I felt the walls closing in around me, my heart pounding so hard I was sure Alain could hear it. The bustling café suddenly felt suffocating, the chatter of patrons a distant buzz in my ears. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
"You can't do this," I said. "You're the one who set me up in Paris. You're the real criminal here."
"Ah, but that's not what the evidence shows, is it? Your fingerprints, your signature… It's all quite damning."
I clenched my fists under the table, fighting the urge to throw my coffee in his smug face.
"Let me make this clear. If you don't help me, your career and reputation will be over in an instant. For good this time."
I felt trapped, cornered like an animal. Part of me wanted to scream, to cause a scene, and expose Alain for the snake he was. But I knew it would be useless. He had planned this too well.
"How long?" I asked, the words tasting bitter in my mouth.
Alain's eyes gleamed with triumph. "Let's say six months. That should be enough time for our little venture."
Six months. Half a year of my life, trapped in his web of lies and deceit. The thought made me sick.
"I need time to think," I said, desperate for a way out.
"Of course. Take all the time you need. I have some urgent business to attend to first. However, your answer can only be positive; otherwise, I cannot guarantee that these documents will remain in my possession. Choose wisely." He stood, straightening his jacket. "I look forward to working with you again," he said.
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the damning folder on the table.
I sat frozen at the table, the café's ambient noise fading to a dull roar in my ears. Alain's words echoed in my mind, each syllable a nail in the coffin of my freedom. The manila folder lay before me, innocuous yet devastating. My fingers trembled as I reached for it, fighting the urge to tear it to shreds.
"Choose wisely," he had said. As if there was any real choice here.
I stuffed the folder into my purse, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I needed to get out of here, needed to breathe, needed to think. But panic clawed at my throat, threatening to overwhelm me. The thought made bile rise in my throat.
