Evelyn
The conservation lab’s UV lights hum like angry wasps as I adjust the spectrometer. The Madonna glows under my lens, her once-vibrant pigments faded into ghostly whispers of their former glory. I trace a gloved finger along the panel’s edge, where the wood has begun to splinter.
“You’re joking.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Marcus leans against my worktable, his arms crossed. It’s a familiar pose, reminiscent of grad school debates over coffee and restoration techniques. While I was finishing my bachelor’s in fine arts, he was already pursuing his PhD. He was brilliant, passionate about preservation, and one of the few people who understood why I could spend hours obsessing over a single brushstroke.
Back then, he was interested in more than just pigments and varnish. But then Tobias came into my life like a whirlwind,all charm and blackmail, and Marcus’s quiet interest faded into professional friendship.
“Lucian Blackwood personally requested that you lead the restoration.” Marcus pushes off the table, pacing the treatment zone of the lab. “He made it a condition of the Blackwood Foundation’s sponsorship.”
“Tobias must have put in a good word,” I lie. Tobias has never shown more than a passing interest in my work. He’s always been more concerned with how it reflects on him, how it fits into the polished image he so carefully curates. The thought of him advocating for me, especially to his family, is absurd. “I’m sorry you weren’t consulted. You’ve been with the museum longer. You’re more qualified to lead this project.”
Marcus dismisses my apology with a wave of his hand. “It’s not about me, Evelyn. This is your moment, but I don’t trust him. He doesn’t look like the type to do favors without expecting something in return.”
I glance back at the Madonna, her serene expression mocking. “What could he possibly want from me? I’m just a conservator.”
This marks the second time in as many days that someone has questioned Lucian’s motives, and I keep defending the man who is stalking me. If there was any doubt about my mental state, it’s gone now. I’m fully aware of how ridiculous my situation is, yet I can’t bring myself to care.
Marcus’s laugh is bitter. “You’re not just anything, Evelyn. And Lucian Blackwood doesn’t get involved in projects this small unless there’s something or someone he wants.”
The air in the lab suddenly feels heavy, and I pull off my gloves, setting them aside. “You’re reading too much into this. The Blackwoods have always been patrons of the arts. This is likely just another investment for them.”
“Well, at least they are spending their millions on something worthwhile,” Marcus concedes. “Just be careful, Evelyn. LucianBlackwood isn’t like his brother. He doesn’t play games for fun. He plays to win.”
I nod absently, my thoughts already drifting to the Caravaggio project. It’ll be a career-defining opportunity, one that could open doors I’ve only dreamed of. Even if it means selling my soul to the devil himself.
After all, there’s not much left to sell. My soul is already fractured, splintered into pieces I can’t fit back together.
And Caravaggio was the cause of it.
The work absorbs me completely for the next three hours. I lose myself in the delicate process of cleaning centuries of grime from the Madonna’s face, each careful stroke revealing colors that haven’t seen light since the Renaissance. By the time I step out of the lab, the museum is cloaked in the soft hues of twilight, the halls empty save for the occasional security guard.
A sudden vibration startles me. My phone lights up with a notification from an unknown number.
The message is brief:
Meet me at The Vault tomorrow. 8 p.m.
I stare at the screen, my pulse quickening.
The Vault is a private club nestled deep in the Financial District, the kind of place where deals worth millions are sealed with handshakes and hundred-year-old scotch. It’s not somewhere I’d ever go willingly, and certainly not somewhere Tobias would think to invite me.
I read the message again, my thumb hovering over the screen. No signature, no explanation—just a command. Mystomach tightens, a mix of curiosity and unease coiling within me. I glance around the empty corridor, half-expecting to see someone watching, but there’s only the faint echo of my footsteps.
I type out a response with my trembling fingers:
Who is this?
The reply comes instantly:
You already know.
The screen dims, and I’m left staring at my reflection, pale and wide-eyed. My thumb hovers over the keys, but no words come. What could I possibly say? Delete it? Pretend I never saw it? My instincts scream at me to shut this down before it spirals into something I can’t control. But there’s a part of me, a reckless, curious part, that whispers back.
What do you have to lose?
Bring me my missing glove.
