Chapter 8 Vivianne The Unveiling #3
Grandmother could have told me, should have told me, but she stayed silent. Silent about everything that mattered. And now they're both gone, and I'm facing Father's rage alone, wishing desperately for someone—anyone—to stand between us.
His eyes narrow, lips curling in cold contempt.
"You're not free to do as you please. You're a Faulks.
My daughter. You don't get to indulge in these whims at the cost of our family's reputation.
" He straightens, his voice taking on that deadly calm that always makes me feel small and insignificant. "You'll close this exhibit. Tonight."
Panic surges in my chest. "Close the exhibit? That'll make even more of a scene, Father. It's—"
He cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Close it. Immediately. I never want to see those paintings in public again." His voice drops lower, more menacing. "Have them delivered to the house. I'll deal with them myself."
My stomach knots. "Delivered? You can't—Father, Paul's work—this is his first public exhibit. It's meant to launch him. You can't just—"
"Burn them." His tone is absolute, final. "I'm going to burn those paintings. No one will see them ever again."
"You can't burn them." The defiance slips past my fear. "This exhibit is everything to Paul. It's his chance to break free and be seen for who he is. You can't take that from him."
"Paul?" Father's voice drips with disdain.
"That art forger you've tangled yourself with?
The one who should be grateful I haven't had him arrested?
" He steps closer, towering over me, his words venomous.
"You think I care about his so-called career?
You've humiliated this family. You've risked everything. "
I bite back the tears welling in my eyes. "I'm not going to let you destroy his future because you're afraid of a few paintings."
"Afraid?" His look could freeze hell. "This isn't a request. You don't have a choice. This is bigger than your little dalliance with Paul de Gaulle. You'll do as I say or deal with the consequences."
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands. "You don't get to decide what's best for me, Father."
"We'll see about that." His eyes narrow, his lips pulling into a thin, cruel line. "Close the exhibit. Those paintings will be gone by morning. If you know what's good for you, you'll stop fighting me."
I'm utterly alone. No mother to shield me.
No grandmother to offer hollow comfort. Just me against Father's iron will, against Prescott's predatory expectations.
I don't know which loss cuts deeper—the mother I barely knew, or the grandmother who loved me but abandoned me to this fate through her silence.
My father turns sharply on his heel, his hand raised in a final gesture of dismissal.
I watch him storm down the hallway, his back stiff with rage, and for a long moment, I can't move. My body feels locked in place, the weight of his threats bearing down on me, but there's something stronger stirring inside me.
I can't let him take this from Paul.
I push off from the wall, determination hardening my resolve.
He may think he's won, but I won't let him bury me—or Paul's future.
Not without a fight.
Before I can move, my father strides toward Dr. Phillips, leaving me frozen in place. Their hushed conversation grows heated, fragments reaching my ears over the excited chatter of the crowd.
"...family heirloom..."
"...impossible..."
"...Merlin..."
The name sends a chill down my spine. Merlin, the legendary art thief. Why does my father care about Merlin?
"This exhibition ends now. Pack it up. All of it." Father's voice rises, drawing concerned looks from nearby patrons.
"But sir, the collection—" Dr. Phillips sputters in protest.
"Is over. Shut it down and deliver the paintings to my estate."
Dr. Phillips shoots me an apologetic glance as Father grabs my arm, pulling me toward the exit.
"We're leaving." His grip is painfully tight.
"Is everything alright, sir? Perhaps I should accompany you..." Prescott falls into step beside us, his face a mask of polite concern.
"Not now, Prescott. We'll be in touch." Father cuts him off with a sharp look.
The night air hits me like a slap as we exit the gallery. Reporters surge forward, sensing a story, but Father's glare holds them at bay. The limousine appears, a sleek black shadow in the night.
The ride home is tense and silent save for Father's occasional muttered curses. I stare out the window, mind whirling with questions. The city lights streak by in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color, each flash blending into the next.
What is the significance of the swan necklace? Why does it match my earrings, and how is Merlin connected to all of this?
The scent of leather and Father's cologne fills the car, familiar yet suffocating. I long to open a window, to breathe in the night air, but I dare not move. Father's anger is a living thing, filling the space between us.
"Our family's legacy is at stake." His voice is low and dangerous. "You will tell me everything you know about this... this artist."