Chapter 1 – Elara
The museum has always been my sanctuary. The scent of varnish, the hush of climate-controlled halls, the muted glow of centuries-old canvases. Here, the noise of my father’s world can’t reach me.
But tonight, even the art feels fragile.
My hands tremble as I smooth a thin layer of varnish onto a Renaissance panel, trying to steady my breath, trying to bury the memory of what I heard at the townhouse a few hours ago. The brushes, the silence, the soft mechanical hum of the dehumidifier, they should calm me. They usually do.
Not tonight.
His voice is still inside my head. The toast. The laughter. The clink of crystal glasses, echoing like chains.
“My daughter will be back. Her hand will seal our business; she’s my currency.”
Those words roll through me, a cold stone down my throat. I see the candlelight, the false charm, the foreign buyers with predatory smiles while I sat there like some item on display. Surrounded by the work I love, I can still feel their eyes on me: appraisal, transaction, betrayal.
The varnish brush slips in my grip and streaks too close to the edge. I curse under my breath, pull back, and force my hands to stillness. Steady, Elara. Breathe.
It’s useless. Everything I thought untouchable—my work, my integrity, the small, honest life I’ve built—tastes tainted now. The truth sits in my bag, folded between folders: shipping manifests that map my father’s greed in ink. David Chang, using the museum as a laundromat for stolen art.
I wash my hands and press the towel to my face, wishing I could scrub the image of that dining room from my skin. If I stay, he’ll corrupt the only pure thing I have left. If I stay, he’ll find some new way to use me.
I set the towel down, straighten my shoulders, and turn back to the panel.
The paint catches the light, and for a breath I let the work pull me back—the tiny, perfect repairs, the gratitude of a restored pigment.
It steadies me for a second, but the decision I already know waits at the edge of that calm.
I will not let him sell me. I will not let him sell what I love.
Tonight, I will run. And before I go, I will ruin him in a way he can never recover from.
“Elara?”
I turn, startled, to see Wahlberg, the museum’s Chief of Security, stepping into the studio, his familiar smile warm beneath the dim overhead light. “You’re still here? I was about to lock up.”
I force a small smile, careful to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, I’ve got a few more things to finish. Don’t worry, I’ll close up.”
He glances at the clock on the wall. It’s already ten p.m. The museum should be shutting down now, lights dimming, corridors emptying. But the night guards know I sometimes stay late—lost in my work, needing the quiet. I’ve earned that privilege, and tonight, I need it more than ever.
Wahlberg hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, then. Just don’t stay too long, yeah? Take care.”
“Will do,” I say, watching him head toward the door.
He waves once before disappearing down the hall, his footsteps fading into silence.
“Goodnight, Wahlberg,” I call softly after him, my voice echoing faintly off the marble.
The sound dies quickly, swallowed by the stillness.
And just like that, the museum belongs to me—and to the plan that’s been burning in my mind all night.
My car is parked in the garage outside. Inside it, there’s a suitcase I packed in a rush after stopping by my apartment an hour ago. I’ve booked a flight to London, where I’ll lay low for six months before figuring out my life. The flight leaves in two hours.
But before then…I have to deal with my father.
I have to show him that I’m not someone he can buy, sell, or barter.
I wait thirty more minutes, just to be sure no one else is coming in.
Then I hurry out of the studio and down the hall toward the climate-controlled storage room where shipments are kept before they’re sent out.
The museum is silent, every step of mine swallowed by its cavernous stillness.
Even though I’m certain no one’s here, I move carefully, making sure my footsteps don’t echo.
At the end of the corridor, I reach the storage room and scan my keycard. The lock clicks open. I slip inside, heart thudding. The air is cooler here, and the faint scent of wood and varnish fills the space. Rows of massive wooden crates stretch out before me, each labeled and sealed.
I pull the folded shipping manifest from my pocket and smooth it open. My eyes dart down the list until I find the tracking number I’m looking for—my father’s goods. Three crates. I scan the rows until I spot them, marked with a foreign insignia.
There they are.
Untouched. Waiting.
I walk toward them slowly, fingers brushing the cold metal clamps, and exhale shakily. He thinks I’m just a decoration, a bargaining chip. But tonight, he’s about to learn that even a pawn can set the board on fire.
I pry the first crate’s clamps loose with the flathead tucked into the shelf above and lift the lid.
The scent inside is intoxicating—old oil, resin, the faint, delicious mildew of canvas kept in the dark.
My hands go cold and steady at once. Inside: a small Baroque panel, varnish crazed, gilding dulled at the corners.
It’s beautiful and stolen and will become another ledger line on my father’s balance sheet if I let it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve sabotaged him.
Since I was eighteen and first followed his paper trail into the shadows, I’ve slipped wrong manifests, delayed pickups, routed crates to the wrong dock.
Tiny scratches in his machine. He never noticed; they weren’t impactful in the grand scheme of his business operations.
Tonight is different because these crates aren’t just stray curiosities; they’re core shipments, the kind that will make men close deals and break laws.
If I succeed, he’ll notice. If he notices, he’ll come for me.
With shaking hands, I swap the manifests, reroute the consignments to the secure storage I arranged under a dead name, and breathe like I’ve held my breath for a lifetime. If Papa wants to sell me as currency, he will lose millions trying. If he doesn’t, I might buy myself a sliver of freedom.
I tuck the altered papers into my bag, fingers numb, and trace the new accession numbers once more as if the ink can steady my nerves. The storage room is suddenly too small; the crates loom like witnesses. I close the lid on the last one, clamp it down, and roll the rack back into place.
I slide down to the cold concrete floor, burying my head in my hands.
My heart hammers so loud it feels like it’s echoing through the crates.
This is such a huge risk, and I won’t lie, I’m terrified.
Papa doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t forget.
And if he finds out about this…I know exactly what he’ll do.
He’ll make an example out of me.
The thought alone makes my stomach twist. I press my palms harder against my eyes, forcing back the sting of tears. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry for him anymore. Not after tonight.
But fear is a stubborn thing. It lingers, even when defiance burns bright beside it.
Maybe I should cry.
I’ve always liked to think of myself as a strong woman, especially after everything I’ve been through; I’ve earned that title.
I don’t cry. Not in front of people. Not even when it hurts.
But right now, in this freezing storage room surrounded by my father’s sins, I feel the tightness in my throat, and I know, crying might actually help.
There’s so much to cry for tonight.
For the fact that I come from a family so broken that it never taught me what love is supposed to feel like.
For the fact that I overheard my own father’s plan to auction me off to the highest bidder.
For the fact that I’m less than two hours away from running—not just from home, but from everything I’ve ever known.
Yeah. There’s plenty to cry about.
A single tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. For a second, I almost let myself fall apart, just sink into the flood of everything I’ve held back for years. But no. Not now.
I shake my head hard, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I won’t cry. Not here. Not in this place that still reminds me of him, like control, like every cage I’ve ever tried to escape.
Maybe I’ll cry when I get to London, when I’m finally safe, when the world stops spinning long enough for me to breathe. But not tonight.
Tonight, I need to get the hell out of here before someone finds me.
I hurry toward the door, my pulse a hammer in my throat. I’m seconds from slipping out when I hear it—footsteps in the dark hallway. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful. Not the casual drag of a night guard. My breath catches.
I stumble back, pressing myself against the cold wall. The storage lights hum faintly above me, the only sound in the thick silence that follows.
Then the door handle turns.
My heart lodges in my chest as the door swings open. A shadow spills into the room—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a predator’s unhurried grace. The kind of movement that makes your instincts scream before your mind catches up.
For a second, I’m sure it’s one of my father’s men, come to drag me back before I can even start to run. The stranger doesn’t step into the light. He just stands there, framed in darkness, watching.
But then he steps forward, just enough for the overhead security lamp to catch his face.
He isn’t one of my father’s men.
No. He’s bigger, meaner-looking. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with hired muscle.
The light slides over sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes the color of burnished hazel.
It’s cutting, assessing, cold. His long brown hair is pulled back into a man bun, and the tailored lines of his suit strain slightly over a body that looks built for war, not business. His gaze locks on me.
“Who the hell are you?” he growls, the words rough, accented, low enough to crawl right down my spine.
I freeze, my blood turning to ice.