Chapter 48
Malena & Conrad
MALENA
The motor of Conrad’s car hummed through the cabin. He hadn’t said anything since we figured out what our next step was: heading to the gallery.
All three of us were going, seeing as how Isha had sort of become an integral part of the plan.
“Will this work?” I asked. The silence was killing me.
The hope that’d sprung up in the face of Conrad’s excitement at the mausoleum… well, it had frosted back to what was to be expected after I’d hurt him.
“Of course it will work.” Ishani popped her head over the center console from where she was smushed in the back seat. “When I called the gallery, they insisted that I come in to discuss it. They refused to confirm anything on the phone.”
“And that makes you sure they have the painting?” I asked.
Maybe Winchester should have had a class called Bizarre Rich People Shit 205, because I’d heard this plan already and was still lost.
“Oh, they have it.” Isha put a hand on the side of each seat.
“They wouldn’t have me come in otherwise.
Making me jump through hoops and stoking my interest with vague mentions of the piece is simply a tactic to drive up the price.
Don’t worry, I’ll offer a few million more than it could ever sell for. ”
“Isha will buy it and ask for a secondary authentication,” Conrad said for my benefit. The first time we went through this, admittedly, I’d been a little distracted.
“They’ll do that?” I asked as I tried to push through the heaviness I was feeling in my chest. He’d read all the Carrington journals.
Just because I gave up didn’t mean he had.
“As long as I pay that much for it and accept that the secondary authentication will damage the piece.” Isha leaned back into her seat and examined her nails.
“And you can do that?” I confirmed, seeing just how indifferently Ishani treated the prospect of spending millions at the drop of a hat.
Sabrina was rich. Conrad was too, I assumed, given who his family was. But even so, what level of rich did you have to be to simply throw around millions without a thought?
“Money really isn’t a thing I think about.” Ishani shrugged. “Don’t worry, this will work. And if it is fake, the sale will be void.”
With that, the car became noiseless again, and about forty minutes later, we were at the gallery.
Inside the cool industrial-style gallery in SoHo, under the bright Edison bulbs, I stared up at a painting from a Berlin artist. An abstract pop-art piece.
Instead of staying with Ishani to talk to the curator who opened the gallery on a Wednesday before a holiday weekend for us, Conrad stood silently next to me. He never left me to fend for myself, even now when there was a mountain of angst between us.
“How did you explain this trip to your parents?” he asked, not looking away from the painting.
“I didn’t.” I pulled out my phone and tilted it in his direction. Already three missed calls, and I suspected there would be plenty more before the day was up.
“Mal.” The gruff and jagged tone distilled down to concern. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“The parents part or the potential FBI investigation about a million-dollar forgery scheme that the president of our university might fall right in the center of?”
A chuckle broke the serious look on his face. “Both.”
“I’m tired of doing what I’m supposed to do. And I’m done with all the pretending,” I admitted. “It isn’t worth it.”
I fastened the last few buttons on my sweater. The downright inhospitable gallery may as well have had the air conditioning on. Conrad took a couple of steps closer, shrugged off his coat, and threw it over me. The cedary scent, the rich silk lining… I’d missed how it felt around me.
“You probably won’t get a recommendation from Packham after this,” he teased lightly.
This revelation threw everything Packham had done for me into a blurry state of disorder. Probably similar to the one Conrad was in with me.
“She already pulled the article, so I’ll figure it out,” I told him.
Packham specified that I kill the article for the paper. But it could still be my submission for the Keller Award. Packham wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t care.
“What do you want from this?” he asked cautiously.
“What do you mean?” My heart skipped, hoping the strained air between us might finally loosen.
He opened his mouth and closed it. “The article,” he clarified. “Packham pulled it, so what do you want?”
“I want to see this through.”
He nodded, and the faint sound of Ishani’s block heel booties echoed through the industrial gallery’s high ceilings, ending any chance of him opening up further.
CONRAD
“I’ll have the newest edition to the Roy art collection next week,” Isha announced as she walked out of the gallery offices with quite possibly the world’s worst timing.
She tucked some files beneath her arm and clasped her hands together.
“They had it?” Malena asked.
“Mm-hmm. Your stunt with the fire alarm worked.” Isha nodded. “The authentication should come through in a few days. A bit of damage to the bottom of the piece, which hurts its value but adds a bit of character.” She looked from me to Malena. “I’ll send the results to you both.”
Malena pulled herself out from under my coat when we reached my car. She handed it to me and looked at Isha. “You can have the front seat, you’re taller.”
“Lucy is meeting me at the Roy house on the Upper East Side.” Ishani put her hand up. I knew she was lying because the McMaster Thanksgiving was very much mandatory, and Isha should’ve been on her way to her London house as it was. “Why don’t you two head back together?”
Just as she said it, a black car pulled up to the curb. And before Mal or I could argue, she was being ushered into her seat.
Another, less awkward silence fell between us until Malena’s phone buzzed in her hand. She looked at it, hit ignore, then pushed it back in her pocket.
“Do you need to get that?”
“Nope.”
“Mal.” My voice softened. I didn’t like that we were in a place where she was made to choose, and I couldn’t blame her for picking the path of least resistance.
More than that, I didn’t want to see the blood drain from her face like I had a week ago.
I couldn’t see that look again. If it meant I had to be the one who hurt, then I would be. “If you need to get back—”
“I meant it when I said I wasn’t lying anymore.
” Malena’s voice was steady, her gaze fixed on me.
The orange afternoon light sparkled in her eyes.
The sincerity hooked itself between my ribs, an invisible string that pulled me back to her.
“I told them I was out and turned off my location settings. I’m not giving up anything else for them. ”
Hope, stupid and persistent, flickered in my chest, and an idea took hold in my head.
I took a step closer and threw my coat back around her. I loved seeing how it flooded her frame. Holding the wool fabric at either lapel, I drew her forward and she came without any protest.
“If there’s no rush to get back… want to see if this article might be something bigger?”
Of the many things being with Malena did to me, the greatest one had to be refusing to simply accept less than what I deserved.
Her cheeks a little flushed, she looked up at me. “What do you mean?”
I wasn’t ready for this day to end. I wasn’t ready for any of it to. “I’m feeling ambitious.”
“Oh no,” she teased in a quiet laugh.
She rocked onto her toes then back to her heels—hesitant or cautious, I wasn’t sure. But if she wasn’t going to give up on what she wanted, neither was I.
“I’m taking you somewhere. And you’re going to have to proof something for me in the car.”