Page 48 of Veil of Ashes
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.
