“Mr. Rockford.” Knox’s cultured aloofness emerges from my throat. “An impressive collection. You’ve acquired some interesting pieces.”
“I have a knack for recognizing value where others see only imitation.” His fingers press firmer on my back, guiding me toward the next painting. “This series, for instance. Most collectors would dismiss them as derivative. But the artist understood something fundamental about creation.”
His mouth hovers near my ear, breath warm on my skin. “That sometimes the greatest act of devotion is recreation.”
My pulse quickens, blood rushing in my ears loud enough to drown the ambient conversation. His words carry a double meaning, cutting through Knox’s careful armor to the real me. To Ren. To the forger who spent a lifetime recreating beauty he couldn’t claim as his own.
“An interesting perspective.” I manage to sound steady despite the tremor running through me. “Though I imagine the original artists might disagree.”
Ezra’s low, intimate laugh draws curious glances from nearby patrons. His hand slides lower, resting a breath above the curve of my ass, a touch so possessive it borders on inappropriate for such a public setting.
“Join me for a private tour later?” The question carries more weight than its simple words suggest. “There are pieces in my private collection I’d love your professional opinion on.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, anchoring myself with pain to stop the spread of heat heading toward my groin. This is just another lie, I tell myself. But my body responds to him with embarrassing eagerness. Knox’s control slips, revealing the man beneath who remembers all too well the warmth of those hands on my bare skin.
Coming here as Knox was a bad idea. Knox already fell under Ezra’s spell during their first encounter.
“I’ll consider it.” The words emerge breathier than intended.
Victory flashes across his handsome features as he notes the flush creeping up my neck, the slight dilation of my pupils. “Excellent. For now, allow me to introduce you to some of our patrons. They’re dying to hear about your restoration work at the Louvre.”
I allow him to guide me toward a cluster of collectors dressed in elegant attire, his hand never leaving my back, his body a constant presence at my side. Knox smiles and nodsand offers scholarly insights when prompted, but beneath the performance, Ren’s thoughts scatter.
My grandfather’s paintings, rescued from obscurity. Ezra’s knowing touch at the base of my spine. The bait disguised as an invitation to an elaborate trap.
Yet I can’t bring myself to care, not when Ezra’s fingers trace small circles on my back, reminding me with each subtle movement of everything I left behind.
Two hours into the event, the gallery lights dim, the sudden shift pulling conversation to a halt mid-sentence. Champagne flutes pause at lips, and heads turn in unison toward the center of the room, where a single spotlight cuts through the darkness to illuminate a small, raised platform.
In the darkness, Ezra’s hand drops to my ass, giving me a parting squeeze before he leaves to step into the light. Shadows sculpt his features, giving him an ethereal appearance, and the silver streak in his hair glows like a beacon guiding lost souls home.
He lifts the microphone with the ease of someone used to commanding attention. His charcoal suit swallows the light, casting him in sharp lines and deliberate restraint. Even from across the gallery, I feel the shift in the room’s center of gravity, everything tilting toward him, as if we’re all satellites in his orbit.
“Good evening, and welcome to Sanctum.” His voice fills the space, rich in contrast to the cold concrete and steel. “I’ve been told opening speeches should be brief, that art should speak for itself. But tonight’s exhibition is about the spaces between speaking and silence, between authenticity and deception.”
The crowd shifts, bodies leaning forward. Knox would analyze this phenomenon with detached interest, the Alpha influence, the modulated tone designed to captivate. But beneath Knox’s scholarly facade, I find myself holding my breath, waiting for what comes next.
“We’ve titled this exhibitionForgeries Through History, but perhaps a more accurate name would beLove Letters to the Impossible.” Ezra’s fingers adjust the microphone, playing with the long stem. “Because every great forgery begins with love. Love for the original. Love for the challenge. Love for the act of creation itself.”
Unease slips through me. I should move, should find a different angle from which to observe and maintain the careful distance Knox would preserve.
Instead, I remain frozen, caught in the amber of Ezra’s words.
“I acquired my first forgery when I was sixteen.” He gives his audience a private smile, as if sharing a secret with the room. “A moody piece of storm clouds and spectral figures, supposedly by an obscure French artist from the 1920s. I didn’t know it was a forgery when I bought it. It just spoke to me in a way nothing else had.”
The air in the gallery thickens, becoming harder to draw into lungs suddenly too small for breath. Is he speaking about the Valenne? AboutAnatomy of a Ghost? The painting at the center of everything, my grandfather’s masterpiece, the reason I first approached Ezra, the work we’ve both been circling for years.
“It hung in my bedroom for two years before an expert casually mentioned it couldn’t be authentic.” Ezra continues, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “The pigments were wrong, apparently. Too modern. The canvas itself dated to decades after the artist’s death.”
A laugh ripples through the audience, appreciation for the young collector’s naïveté. I don’t join them. My throat closes around the knowledge of what comes next.
“But here’s the strange part.” Ezra pauses, letting anticipation build. “When I learned it was a forgery, I didn’t feel betrayed. I feltfascinated. Because someone had loved the original painting enough to study it, to understand it, to recreate it with such devotion that it fooled even seasoned collectors. Someone had put their soul into creating a perfect echo of another artist’s vision.”
The spotlight catches the planes of his face as he turns, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and transforming his youthful features into a visage of ancient wisdom. My grandfather would have called him an old soul. Wise beyond his years.
And my heart hammers in response, a prisoner pounding on the walls of its cage.
“It wasn’t a copy.” He finds me through the crowd, locking on with laser precision across a sea of faceless patrons. “It was a love letter disguised as a lie.”
