The connection between us pulls taut, an invisible cord stretching across the darkened gallery. In that moment, Knox falls away, leaving only Ren, exposed, vulnerable, and seen. The room blurs at the edges of my vision, faces smearing into indistinct shapes as Ezra’s eyes hold me hostage.
“The forger had poured everything into their canvas. Technical skill, yes, but also understanding. They captured not only the brushstrokes but the intention behind them. The longing. The loss. The quiet desperation of reaching for something just beyond grasp.”
Each word strikes true, an attack designed to dismantle defenses I spent years constructing.
He knows. Has always known.
My approach as Knox was never the beginning of our story. It was just a chapter he let me believe I authored.
“So tonight,” Ezra continues, releasing me to address the wider audience, “we celebrate these love letters. These technical marvels. These forgeries that in many ways surpass their inspirations through the sheer force of devotion behind them.”
Applause breaks out around me, but the roaring in my ears drowns it out. My collar feels too tight, the temperature too high, the press of bodies too close. Sweat gathers at my hairline, threatening to dissolve the careful styling of Knox’s appearance.
A woman in designer silk bumps my arm and apologizes with a flirtatiousness I can’t return. Her expensive floral perfume mixes with the scent of champagne and cologne until my stomach churns with nausea.
I need air. Need space. Need to escape the knowing eyes that once again catch mine through the crowd as Ezra concludes his speech.
“Please enjoy the exhibition, explore these masterful deceptions, and remember that, sometimes, the greatest truths hide within the most beautiful lies.”
The lights come up, and conversation resumes in a wave of sound that crashes against my sensitized nerves. I set my champagne down on a passing server’s tray and begin the careful navigation toward the edges of the room, away from where Ezra now accepts compliments from admirers who crowd around him.
The bathroom door swings shut behind me, cutting off the gallery’s ambient noise and plunging me into relative silence. My ears pop from the sudden change in acoustic pressure as I brace my hands on the cool marble of the sink counter, head bowed as I stare at the perfect circle of the basin.
I breathe deep, filling lungs only moments ago compressed by the weight of Ezra’s revelation. The bathroom is all sleekminimalism, with black tiles, brushed metal fixtures, and lighting recessed into the ceiling to cast no shadows. Even here, every detail has been considered, curated, and controlled. Just like the exhibition. Just like Ezra’s speech.
Just like the trap I walked into with eyes wide open.
Turning the faucet on, I thrust my wrists beneath the cold flow of water, a trick my grandfather taught me to steady nerves before a difficult forgery. The icy shock over my pulse points forces focus and clears the mind of everything but the immediate sensation.
I splash some on my face, careful not to disturb Knox’s styling too much. Water beads on my glasses, distorting the reflection staring back at me.
Who are you right now?The question forms in my mind, unanswerable. Not Knox, whose scholarly confidence has abandoned me. Not Lorenzo with his practiced charm. Not Tobias with his quiet retreat into obscurity. Just fragments of masks shattered by Ezra’s speech.
I remove my glasses, wiping them clean with the pocket square from my jacket. Without them, my reflection becomes someone else, not me, but not one of my personas, either.
No one. A ghost.
The sound of the door opening comes as no surprise, and my fingers tighten on the edge of the counter as the distinct click of the lock echoes in the tiled space.
“Hiding, Professor Knox?” Ezra’s voice carries the same rich timbre from his speech but stripped of performance. “Or do you prefer Tobias these days?”
I straighten and replace my glasses before I turn to face him.
Ezra leans against the door, arms crossed. He looks different here, the charming performance from earlier gone, the hunter now exposed.
My pulse beats erratically. “I needed a moment.”
Ezra pushes off from the door, closing the distance. “A moment to regroup? To recalculate? To decide which mask to wear next?”
I stand my ground, refusing to retreat further, though every instinct screams to create distance.
“You thought you made the first move.” He stops just out of reach, maddeningly confident while I’m falling apart. “You thought you came to me for the art. But I knew who you were the moment we met. The Omega who paints ghosts. The thief who yearns to be seen.”
My blood runs cold, then hot, then cold again, a fever pulsing beneath my skin. Ezra has been playing a game since before we met, leaving me uncertain of where I stand on the board.
“How long?” The question emerges through clenched teeth, my anger wrapping around fear.
“From the beginning.” His tongue skims over his bottom lip. “Before you ever approached me as the shy professor with specialist knowledge in forgery detection. Before you created Knox to appeal to me, I created sweet, naïve Ezra to appeal to you.”
