Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gabrielle
It was midmorning, and Anthony still hadn’t shown up. Or maybe he had—just briefly—and left before I arrived. The gallery felt oppressively still. Not the calm, anticipatory quiet that usually settled in before opening, but a heavy, hollow silence that pressed down on everything, as if the space itself had been abandoned.
I rubbed the tension from my forehead and forced my attention back to the documents spread in front of me— A Lady and Gentleman in Black . I’d reviewed the provenance record for what felt like the hundredth time, the chain of documented ownership offering no new clarity. On my screen, my Swiss contact’s email still glared at me, unanswered.
Still nothing.
As my fingers tapped on the desk, I resisted checking my phone again. The message I waited for remained absent. The only sound was the soft whirr of the ceiling fan overhead; the staff wouldn’t arrive for another half hour. It was just me, the paintings, and the weight of foreboding I couldn’t place. I shifted in my chair, rolling my shoulders back in an attempt to dispel the creeping unease.
Gather yourself, Gabrielle .
Yet something was off. I picked up my phone; its cold metal was a stark contrast to my rising anxiety.
No new messages—none from Anthony, none from my contact in Switzerland, none at all. The longer I stared at the blank screen, the more certain my gut became: something ominous was coming.
Swallowing hard, I shifted my focus back to the records, but a shadow moved in the hallway just then. My breath hitched. Was it just a trick of the light or the security guard? No. Someone else was there.
My pulse quickened as the shadow took shape.
Frank Curtain.
He entered with calculated ease, his expression unreadable. Without hesitation, he stepped fully into my office and, with deliberate intent, closed the door behind him with a soft click. He offered no greeting, no explanation. Instead, he stood there, adjusting his cufflinks with the slow precision of a man who knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.
I kept my expression neutral, even as every instinct screamed at me to tense, react, and move.
This wasn’t a casual visit. Curtain had closed that door for a reason—sealing us in, ensuring privacy. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t going to be good.
He took his time—straightening his sleeves, smoothing his jacket—before finally lifting his gaze to meet mine. His eyes glimmered with amusement, and I knew he was enjoying the tension.
“Gabrielle, I admire your dedication,” he mused, stepping further into the office. “Here so early, already working.” His voice was smooth and confident, sliding into the room whether it was welcome or not.
I remained in my chair, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Something I can help you with, Mr. Curtain?” I asked in an even, detached tone.
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “Ah, straight to business. I appreciate that.”
He moved past my desk, glancing at the large window overlooking the gallery floor. I caught his reflection there—the slight tilt of his head as if he were admiring the space as his own.
“I’ve always found this gallery fascinating,” he murmured, dragging his fingers along the back of a guest chair. “So much history. So many secrets.” It was clear his interest wasn’t just in the art.
I folded my hands in my lap, determined to appear unfazed. “If you’re looking for a particular piece, I’d be happy to arrange a viewing. Otherwise, I have work to do before we open.”
Curtain chuckled softly. “That’s what I like about you, Gabrielle. Always professional.” His reflection shifted as he turned back toward me, and I met his gaze squarely. “Then I assume you have a reason for being here,” I said smoothly.
His smile widened, but it was insincere. “Oh, I do.” He stepped closer, yet I didn’t move or blink—a silent refusal to give him any ground.
After a pause, he said as casually as if commenting on the weather, “You and Moreau. Your red dress over your hips—I saw it all.” His words hit like a punch, stealing my breath. But I remained composed. The air shifted, charged with something dark. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said with a straight face.
With a click of his tongue, he replied, “Oh, Gabrielle. I thought we were past pretending.” He edged even closer.
I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached as the indiscretion Anthony and I shared materialized before me—and Curtain seemed to revel in it.
Tilting his head with mocking amusement, he mused, “By the next morning, the security footage was gone. I assume Moreau erased it.”
I felt a sudden chill.
He wasn't merely playing games; he savored every moment. Yet, I denied him the satisfaction he sought. Lifting my chin, I met his gaze with indifference. "If the footage is gone," I said smoothly, "there's nothing left to discuss."
For a moment, annoyance and satisfaction flickered across his face before his smirk reappeared. "A shame," he murmured, his eyes lingering on the buttons of my blouse before meeting mine. Disgust twisted in my gut. "I’d hoped to watch it again."
The icy words locked my body in defense, but I remained still. Unmoved, I uncrossed my legs, shifting slightly as if mildly inconvenienced, and raised an eyebrow. "Then that's your loss," I replied flatly.
His smirk wavered but quickly returned. "Perhaps. But there are other pleasures," he said, stepping back and giving me space. I could breathe, yet I knew it wasn't over. He wanted something, and I dreaded discovering what.
Curtain let out a slow breath as if he had all the time in the world. That same smug amusement clung to him, wrapped around his every move, like he was savoring a private joke I wasn’t in on.
But this wasn’t just about gloating.
He moved leisurely through my office, his fingers examining a plant in the corner before turning back toward me. That smirk of his faded, and something else took its place—something sharper, more deliberate.
"Now," he said, his voice dropping lower, more measured. "Let’s talk about what you can do for me."
I didn’t react, even though every nerve in my body told me to brace for whatever was coming next.
Instead, I tilted my head just slightly, keeping my voice neutral. "I wasn’t aware I owed you anything."
That smirk returned, slow and knowing. "Ah, Gabrielle. Always quick on your feet."
I didn’t respond. I let the silence stretch.
Curtain let it linger momentarily before exhaling. Then, as casually as he asked me to arrange a lunch reservation, he said, “I have a painting I need to move. It’s a very special piece."
My expression hid the pain I felt as my stomach tightened.
A stolen painting.
Not just something questionable—something so valuable, so dangerous, even he couldn’t move it through his usual back channels.
And now he wanted me to do it for him.
“I’m not a dealer,” I said smoothly, folding my hands in my lap. “That’s not what I do.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “No, but you have access to collectors who trust you. Trust, Gabrielle, is a highly valued asset.”
There it was, the truth. It wasn’t about my expertise or the painting itself.
This was about power.
Curtain wanted me involved, tied to him, complicit in his scheme.
I remained unwavering, my expression unreadable. “You’re mistaken,” I said, my voice steady. “I don’t engage in the illegal trade of stolen art.”
“Ah,” he mused, stepping forward just enough to lean his hands against the desk, tapping his fingertips slowly. “I didn’t say it was stolen. It’s just that I don’t trust most art dealers.”
A chill prickled at the back of my neck.
Curtain didn’t need me to be an expert in this. He just needed leverage. He needed me tangled in this, unable to pull away.
I inhaled, steady and slow, as if considering my options. But the truth was, I was stalling.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I finally said.
He studied me, his gaze dragging over my face as if he were trying to determine whether I was lying. After a long pause, he gave a slow, satisfied nod.
"Good," he murmured. "I’ll be back in a few days."
Then, just like that, he turned and strolled out of my office, leaving behind nothing but the suffocating weight of his presence.
Only when the door clicked shut did I exhale. I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling on the smooth glass. I had to call Anthony. Now! But before I could dial, my screen lit up with a message.
Anthony: Didn’t plan to leave today, but I’ve been summoned to Dallas. I wanted to see you. I’m not sure what that means anymore, but I still do.
I stared at the words, my stomach plummeting.
Dallas.
He was leaving, and the timing wasn’t a coincidence.
Curtain had waited for the perfect window—when I was alone and had no backup.
My chest tightened.
I had always feared our debauchery would come back to haunt Anthony and me, but now the reality of it settled over me like a weight I wasn’t sure I could lift. I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes briefly before pushing away from my desk.
I couldn’t sit here, drowning in this feeling. I needed to move. I grabbed my purse, my phone, and my keys and headed out.
By the time I slid into my car, my breaths were coming faster. I could tell Anthony.
I should tell him.
But he was already gone. Already dealing with whatever mess the judge had thrown at him.
I gripped the steering wheel, pressing my forehead against the back of my knuckles.
He couldn’t help me with this. But Juliette could, and I needed to talk to her.
Curtain thinks he has me trapped. He thinks he has all the leverage.
“But he doesn’t know who he is messing with,” I told myself as I gazed into the rearview mirror. “Not yet.”
I started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed home to my sister, but not before grabbing my phone and texting Anthony.
Gabrielle: I don’t know what it means either. But I wanted to see you too. Text me when you get to Dallas.