Chapter 16 – Sylvara
I slip away from the ballroom, heels kissing the marble with the lightest tap as I weave through servant corridors. Emergency bulbs cast a dull red glow, painting my path in shadows.
Tucked in the hem of my dress, the forged Monet replica rides against my thigh. Rolled tight, edges creased with intent. On its back, nestled inside a resin chip near the stretcher bar, hides the real prize—a microdot tracker, small enough to miss, smart enough to ping its location every thirty seconds once activated. Whoever receives this painting is about to be very, very watched.
I find the storage vault down a narrow stairwell, steel door ajar just enough to nudge through. Inside, it’s clinical and hushed, rows of temperature-controlled crates humming low. Varnish and old canvas mingle with the tang of cold metal and my own adrenaline.
Art crates line the walls, stacked precise, but my target hangs framed on a stand, prepped for last-minute display. The original glows under dim light, a soft swirl of lilies I know too well. I move fast, hands steady despite the rush.
I lift it with both hands, careful but quick. Its weight is familiar. Reverent. Then I unroll the forgery and slide it into place, aligning the edges like a surgeon setting bone. I run my fingers across the back, pressing the resin chip deeper into the groove I carved days ago in the workshop, making sure it’s flush, flush enough to vanish.
“Art has always been a lie that tells the truth,” I whisper, voice soft, almost a prayer. The words slip out, reverent, as I step back to check my work. It’s flawless, a mirror of the original, my soul stitched into every stroke.
Footsteps break the quiet, heavy and quick. My breath catches, freezing in my chest. A guard rounds the corner, flashlight beam slashing through the dark, landing square on me.
His hand drops to his radio, eyes narrowing under his cap. I tense, ready to bolt, but before I move, a thud echoes sharp. Kieran steps in, swift and sure, disarming the guard with a twist of his wrist.
The flashlight clatters to the floor, spinning wild. Kieran drives a fist into the man’s temple, dropping him limp in two clean moves. The guard crumples, out cold, sprawled across the steel.
“You really thought heels wouldn’t echo down steel?” Kieran says, voice low and rough, stepping over the body. He brushes his hands off, eyes flicking to mine.
I smirk, adjusting my dress. “You love the sound.” My tone stays light, but my pulse races, adrenaline singing through my veins.
He snorts, bending to drag the guard behind a crate. “Keep moving,” he says, voice clipped, but I catch the edge of a grin. I turn back to the painting, double-checking the swap.
The vault hums around us, a steady pulse matching my own. I didn’t just forge paintings. I forged myself. And tonight, I’m my finest counterfeit, every line of me drawn sharp and bold.
I glide my fingers along the frame, feeling the texture shift from real to fake. The thrill hits me hard, a rush I haven’t felt since the gallery days. I’m not just surviving this—I’m alive in it, thriving.
Kieran steps close, his heat brushing my back as he scans the room. “Clear,” he says, keeping his voice down. His presence steadies me, but the buzz in my blood doesn’t fade.
I remember my father’s smile mid-con—charming, brilliant, a gleam in his eye before it all crashed down. That same thrill courses through me now, electric and dangerous. It scares me how much I like it.
The original painting rests in my hands. I slide it into a thin case tucked under my arm, fabric rustling faint as I secure it. Every move feels like art, like I’m painting again, not just wielding a blade.
Kieran moves to the door, peering out into the corridor. “We’ve got minutes,” he says, voice tight, hand resting on his gun. I nod, smoothing my dress, feeling the dagger strapped to my thigh.
Kieran glances back, eyes catching mine. “You’re glowing,” he says, low enough that it’s just for me. I tilt my head, letting a half-smile slip.
“It’s the adrenaline,” I say, stepping toward him. But it’s more—control, power, the brush of who I was before all this. I’m not just exposing corruption; I’m reveling in it.
Kieran nudges the flashlight with his foot, killing its beam. Darkness creeps in, but I feel sharper than ever.
Alarms scream through the vault, a shrill wail cutting the quiet like a knife. Someone has found the guard, sprawled limp behind the crate. My heart leaps, adrenaline surging hot through my veins.
“We need to move,” Kieran says, grabbing my hand.
His grip is rough and urgent, yanking me toward a fire exit. The steel door bangs open, and we spill into a service corridor, red lights pulsing overhead. My heels skid on the concrete, but I keep pace, the case with the original painting tucked tight under my arm.
We sprint, my dress flapping against my thighs, silk catching the air. Laughter bubbles up, wild and breathless, spilling out as my chest heaves. My heart pounds fierce, unbroken, alive in a way I’d forgotten.
The corridor twists, pipes lining the walls, steam hissing faint as we run. Kieran’s ahead, boots slamming the floor, his hand locked around mine. I feel every jolt, every turn, my blood singing with the rush.
A security officer steps out at the loading dock, blocking our path, radio crackling in his fist. Kieran doesn’t hesitate—he draws his gun, fires once, and the overhead light explodes in a shower of sparks.
Darkness floods the space, thick and instant. I hear the guard grunt, then a thud as Kieran’s fist connects, dropping him cold. My eyes adjust, catching the outline of the man crumpled on the ground.
“Move,” Kieran snaps, voice tight, pulling me past the body. We burst through the dock doors into the alley behind the hotel, warm Vegas night slamming into us. Gunfire erupts, bullets pinging off the brick, chasing our heels.
I duck low, laughter still tingling in my throat, and dive behind a dumpster. Kieran follows, slamming against it beside me, chest heaving. The stench of garbage hits hard, but I barely notice, my pulse roaring too loud.
He pants, sweat streaking his face, eyes flashing with anger and something electric. “Next time, warn me before you decide to go off script,” he says, voice rough, hands braced on the metal.
I smile, cheeks flushed hot, eyes blazing under the alley’s faint neon spill. “Where’s the fun in that?” I say, catching my breath, the thrill still buzzing through me.
He shakes his head, a sharp laugh breaking free despite himself. Gunfire echoes again, closer now, ricocheting off the wall above us. I press tighter to the dumpster.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t running from something. I was running into it. The thought hits me sharp, lodging deep, as I clutch the painting case closer.
Kieran peers around the edge, gun in hand, checking the alley. “Clear for now,” he says, voice low, wiping his brow with his sleeve. His shirt’s ripped at the shoulder, exposing skin slick with sweat.
My dress clings damp to my back, torn silk fluttering as a breeze cuts through the alley. The city hums beyond, alive and waiting.
“You’re a damn storm, Syl,” he says, turning to me, eyes dark and wild. His breath comes fast, matching mine, and I see it—he’s caught in this as deep as I am.
“Then don’t hold an umbrella,” I say, grinning fierce, leaning closer. My hand brushes his arm, a spark jumping between us, raw and unscripted.
He stares at me, chest still rising quick, then looks away, scanning the shadows. Footsteps pound somewhere close, shouts bouncing off the brick. My laughter fades, but the fire in me doesn’t.
I peek out, neon from the Strip painting the alley in streaks of pink and blue. A bullet grazes the dumpster, metal screeching, and I flinch back, heart kicking harder. This is more than revenge—it’s me, clawing back who I am.
Kieran grabs my wrist again, pulling me up.
“We’re not done,” he says, voice edged with heat. We bolt, weaving through trash bags and crates, my heels scraping rough pavement.
The alley narrows, walls closing in, graffiti blurring past as we run. My lungs burn, but I push faster, the painting case banging against my side. I feel every step, every pulse, alive in the chaos.
A shadow moves ahead—another guard, pistol raised. Kieran shoves me behind him, firing twice, the sound cracking loud. The guard drops, clutching his leg, and we leap over him, not stopping.
The city opens up, neon lights flooding my vision as we hit the street. Cars honk, tires squeal, the Strip alive and roaring around us. I laugh again, sharp and free, adrenaline torching my veins.
Kieran pulls me into a side street, narrower, darker, away from the chase. We stumble against a wall, panting hard, his hand still gripping mine. His eyes lock on me, fierce and searching.
I feel the tear in my dress widen, silk hanging loose over my shoulder. My hair sticks to my neck, damp and wild, but I don’t care—I’m electric, untamed, here.
“You good?” he asks, voice ragged, brushing a hand over his torn sleeve. Blood streaks his knuckles, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Better than good,” I say, chest heaving, smile tugging my lips. The gunfire fades behind us, replaced by the city’s pulse, loud and relentless.
He leans closer, forehead almost touching mine, breath hot between us.
“You’re gonna get us killed,” he says, but there’s no anger—just heat, raw and unguarded.
“Maybe,” I say, tilting my head, meeting his stare. “But you’re here for it.” My fingers brush his chest, feeling his heart pound through the fabric.
He doesn’t pull back, just holds my gaze, torn shirt fluttering in the breeze.
The alley stretches behind us, shadows pooling where we came from. My legs ache, but the rush keeps me standing, keeps me wanting more.
Kieran steps back, checking the street, gun still in hand. “We need to move,” he says, voice steadying, but his eyes linger on me, caught. I nod, smoothing my torn dress, ready.
We vanish into the neon-drenched city, clothes ripped, adrenaline still blazing through us. The painting was fake. The microdot was real. But what terrified me most was how real I felt too.