Chapter 129
Serena
Vincent carefully laid the painting on the cleared section of the table, and I began unwrapping it with deliberate slowness, building the anticipation. The final layer of protective covering fell away, and I stepped back to let Harrison see.
For a moment, he simply stared. Then his hand came up to his mouth, and I watched his eyes widen behind his glasses, reflecting the deep crimson of Monet's water lilies. "My God," he breathed, moving closer with the reverence of someone approaching a religious artifact. "This is—"
"Monet's only red water lily painting," I finished for him, unable to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. "Created in the last months of his life."
Harrison pulled out a jeweler's loupe from his pocket—of course he had one on hand—and began examining the surface with the kind of intensity that made the rest of the world fade away. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the magnification, and I saw him swallow hard, overcome by whatever details he was discovering in those violent brushstrokes.
I let him have his moment, understanding the significance of what he was seeing. For someone like Harrison, who'd spent his entire career studying art history, being this close to such a rare piece was probably the equivalent of a religious experience.
Finally, he straightened, carefully cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, his hands still shaking slightly. "Serena," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "I don't even know where to begin. The historical value alone—" He broke off, shaking his head. "If you're looking for a buyer, you've come to the right place. I can start making calls tomorrow, discreetly of course. There are several collectors in New York alone who would mortgage their souls for a piece like this. The Lawson family has expressed interest in acquiring significant Impressionist works, and there are at least three new-money tech billionaires who are building collections to legitimize their social standing—"
"Dr. Harrison," I interrupted gently, and he stopped mid-sentence, looking at me with those sharp, intelligent eyes. "Thank you for the offer, but I'm not here to ask you to find me a buyer."
His eyebrows shot up. "Then—?"
"I need to borrow one of your museum's private exhibition rooms," I said, watching his expression shift from confusion to intrigue. "Just for tomorrow. A small space where I can host a private viewing."
Harrison's face went through several rapid transformations—surprise, calculation, and then deep skepticism. "But Serena, that would take time to arrange properly. If you're trying to sell this quickly—and given the legal complications surrounding its ownership, I assume you are trying to move it quickly—wouldn't it be more efficient to simply connect with potential buyers directly? I have relationships with—"
"The buyer will come to me," I said, my voice carrying a certainty I didn't entirely feel but was determined to project. "They'll seek me out."
The skepticism on Harrison's face deepened into something close to disbelief. "They'll come to you?" He studied my face as if trying to determine whether I'd lost my mind. "Serena, the art market doesn't work that way. Even for a piece this extraordinary, you need to create buzz, reach out to the right people, establish provenance documentation—"
"I know how the market works," I said, cutting him off with more sharpness than I'd intended. I softened my tone, offering him a small smile. "Trust me on this one. By tomorrow evening, I'll have my buyer. All I need is the space to make it happen."
Harrison was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table as he studied me with the same intensity he'd applied to the painting.
Then, slowly, his expression shifted into something that looked almost like admiration. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "your grandfather used to do things like this. Make impossible claims with absolute confidence, and somehow, inexplicably, deliver on them every single time." He paused, then nodded decisively. "All right. I'll have the East Gallery prepared for you tomorrow. It's small, intimate—perfect for a private viewing. What time do you need it?"
"Two o'clock," I said, the timeline already mapped out in my head. "I'll need it until close of business."
"Done." He extended his hand, and I shook it, feeling the weight of his trust settle over me like a cloak. "I have to ask, though—what are you calling this exhibition? Even a private viewing needs a name for the documentation."
I looked at the painting one more time, at those violent red strokes that Monet had applied in his final months, when he knew he was dying, when he was saying goodbye to the light and color that had defined his entire existence. Tomorrow, this painting would disappear into private hands, locked away in a vault or a collector's private gallery, never to be seen by the public again. It was the end of an era, the closing of a chapter in art history.
"Tomorrow is the last time this painting will ever be seen in public," I said quietly, my voice carrying the weight of that finality.
"Call it 'The Funeral.'"