Chapter 25 PANGS OF DISTRESS
Ethan stood by the door, quietly listening to Lena's phone conversation. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the pain in her voice caught him off guard. When she ended the call, he silently returned to his desk, pretending to work though his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't focus. Something was clearly wrong. And whatever it was, it had to be serious. He knew how much the art gallery meant to her enough to make her agree to an arranged marriage just to keep it alive.
Vincent. He had heard that name before somewhere, in passing but he brushed the thought aside. It wasn't his place to interfere. Her private life was just that private. Whatever issues she had with this Vincent wasn't his business... or so he kept telling himself.
Lena was in shambles. Her head spun violently, thoughts clashing like a storm she couldn't calm. She had just signed a strange, emotionless contract to save the gallery, something that already felt like a gamble and now this. Now someone was trying to strip everything from her. And not just anyone. He was a thug. A dangerous, ruthless man with power and reach far beyond what she could handle alone.
But even as fear clawed at her, she couldn't give up. She wouldn't sit back and watch him erase everything her father built, everything she had fought for. This gallery wasn't just a building, it was the last piece of him she had left. And if she had to fight dirty to keep it, so be it.
She had a sudden flashback that gripped her chest with both warmth and ache. She was a teenager again, just back from school after a terrible day. Frustrated and overwhelmed, she stormed into the gallery, hoping to be alone.
But as she stepped inside, soft music floated through the space, calming and familiar. Her father was there, swaying gently as he painted, completely lost in his world. The passion in his eyes was unmistakable; it lit up the entire room. When he saw her, he smiled, opened his arms, and welcomed her without a single question. Then, with quiet pride, he walked her through the piece he was working on, his voice tender as he described the strokes and the story behind each color.
And just like that, the weight of her bad day melted off her shoulders like ice in the sun. That gallery had always been her safe place. Her sanctuary. Her father's love etched into every wall.
The gallery and the artworks weren't just important because they were her father's legacy, or because he had worked tirelessly to keep the place alive. They meant so much more. Each painting, each sculpture held deep emotional weight. When she looked at them, she didn't just see art she saw him. His smile, his passion, his soul poured into every brushstroke.
The gallery was a piece of his heart, frozen in time. And now that he was gone, it was all she had left. She would never hear his voice again, never feel his embrace but through those paintings, she could still feel close to him. Losing the gallery would be like losing him all over again. And she wasn't sure she could survive that twice.
She stood up abruptly, her emotions boiling over, and stormed into the room where Ethan was working.
"We have to go back to Melbourne," she said, her voice sharp with urgency. "I have very urgent business there."
Ethan didn't look up from his laptop. He kept his expression cool, his tone measured and calm.
"But you know our honeymoon is supposed to last a week," he said. "It's only been four days. You really shouldn't mix business with personal matters."
"Please, it's urgent," Lena said, her voice cracking slightly. "I have to go back as soon as possible."
Ethan was about to respond with one of his usual cold, dismissive remarks but something made him pause. He finally looked up, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. There was something different in her expression. It wasn't just stress, it was deeper. Desperation. Fear. Even when they first met, when she had been drowning in debt and grasping at straws, she hadn't looked this defeated.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a slight sigh, he closed his laptop.
"Alright," he said quietly. "We'll head back tomorrow morning."
Lena didn't reply right away. "Alright. Thanks," she muttered quickly, already turning and storming back to the other room. She grabbed her phone without missing a beat and dialed Penny, her hands trembling slightly as she waited for her to pick up.
Vincent Helparn.
Ethan typed the name into a secure thread and sent it to a private contact. A moment later, he followed it with a simple directive:
Let me know everything about him.
He stared at the screen for a second longer, then picked up his phone and called his assistant.
"Get a jet ready," he said flatly. "We're flying back to Melbourne tomorrow morning."
"Sir, please... I'll pay you back soon!" the man pleaded desperately, his voice hoarse with fear.
The room was dimly lit, shadows swallowing the edges. Four men surrounded him two gripping his arms tightly, holding him in place, while the other two stood with thick wooden clubs, already bloodied from earlier use.
At the far end of the room sat a man in a dark suit, legs crossed, watching the scene unfold with a chilling calm.
"I've given you more than enough time," he said smoothly, his tone void of emotion.
"Please... my daughter was hospitalized," the man cried. "I needed the money for her surgery. I didn't have a choice."
The man in the suit tilted his head. "So you think paying for your daughter's surgery is more important than paying me on time?"
"No, sir! That's not what I meant please, I swear-"
"Bean," the man in the suit called, cutting him off.
"Yes, boss," one of the men with a club answered instantly.
"Show him what happens when people delay my payment."
With that, the man in the suit stood, buttoned his jacket, his shoes echoing against the concrete floor as he calmly walked out.
Behind him, the desperate man screamed, his pleas lost in the sound of wood crashing against flesh.
"Sir, we've retrieved those items from the gallery," the man by the door reported as the boss stepped out of the dark room, adjusting his cuffs casually, his expression unreadable.
"Oh... excellent," he said with a cold smile, wiping his hands clean with a cloth as he walked past.
"How many were they?" the boss asked as he continued down the hallway, his tone calm but firm.
"Five paintings and three sculptures," the man replied quickly.
"Excellent," the boss said with a satisfied nod. "Have them placed carefully in my store. Not a scratch on them."
"Yes, sir," the man answered before hurrying off to carry out the order.