Page 358 of Rosetti Family New York
The headache intensifies as I stare at the caller ID. Three hours of stolen peace, of feeling like my mind belongs to me instead of everyone else, and now it's over. I glance once more at my unknown woman, drawing strength from her defiant gaze, then answer.
"Good morning, Uncle."
"Isabella." His voice carries that particular warmth he reserves for public consumption, the tone that makes him seem like a doting guardian instead of what he really is. "You're up early."
"I wanted to get some work done before the museum opens." I gather my research papers with one hand, already knowing this conversation will steal what's left of my morning.
"Always so dedicated. Listen, there's a charity gala next Friday evening. The Children's Hospital benefit."
My stomach tightens. "I didn't see it on my calendar."
"Rebecca will send the details. Something elegant, nothing too bold. You understand."
You understand.Code for: smile prettily, charm the donors, remind everyone that Chase Callahan has connections to culture and respectability. That he's not just another criminal with money. I look at my unknown woman, wondering if she ever had someone control her wardrobe, her schedule, her entire existence.
"Of course," I hear myself say. "Will you need me to do anything specific?"
"Just your usual magic, darling. You have such a gift for making people feel welcome."
Welcome.Such a gentle word for what I actually do. Stand there looking pristine while men with blood on their hands write checks and pretend they're philanthropists.
"I'll be ready."
"I know you will. You always are. Oh, and Isabella? Don't stay too late at work tonight. You look tired lately."
The line goes dead before I can respond. He's never even seen me this week, but somehow he knows I haven't been sleeping. Somehow he always knows everything.
I stare at the portrait for a long moment, memorizing the curve of that defiant jaw, then carefully pack away my research. Time to transform into the Callahan Iceflower. Time to pretend my life belongs to me.
I take a steadying breath and walk toward the main galleries, each step carrying me further from the woman I am and closer to the woman I have to be. By the time I reach the European Decorative Arts wing, my spine is straight, my expression serene, my voice ready to charm donors and deflect uncomfortable questions.
The morning passes in donor correspondence and exhibition planning. The headache lingers, making everything feel sharp-edged, but I've learned to function through worse. When Jeffrey from conservation stops by with news about the pigment analysis on my portrait, I manage genuine enthusiasm despite the exhaustion.
"Miss Callahan, Mr. Pellia is here for his private tour."
I smooth my expression into professional warmth, the mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.
Antony Pellia waits by the Sèvres porcelain display, tall and silver-haired, wearing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and cologne that smells expensive and cloying.
"Isabella, my dear. You look lovely as always."
"Mr. Pellia. Thank you for choosing us for your private viewing today." I gesture toward the display case. "I thought you might be interested in seeing the new acquisitions we discussed at the donor dinner."
He follows me through the galleries, making appreciative noises at the right moments while his eyes catalogue everything from security cameras to exit routes. I've learned to recognize that look, the way powerful men assess everything as potential territory to claim.
"Your uncle speaks very highly of your work here," he says as we pause before a gilt bronze clock. "He mentioned you have quite the eye for important pieces."
Something in his tone makes my skin crawl. The way he says "important pieces" like he's talking about something other than art. "I've been fortunate to work with some remarkable artifacts."
"Indeed. I imagine Chase values having you in such distinguished circles."
Values.There's that word again. As if I'm currency instead of a person, a shiny token of respectability to display while darker business happens behind closed doors.
"The museum is fortunate to have such generous supporters," I reply, keeping my voice level despite the fatigue making everything feel raw. "Your contributions have allowed us to acquire several significant works this year."
"Oh, I'm sure there are many significant acquisitions yet to be made." His smile turns predatory. "Your uncle and I have been discussing some interesting opportunities."
I nod and smile and play my part, all while wondering what kind of opportunities require a private tour of the museum's most valuable holdings. What kind of deals get disguised as cultural philanthropy.
