Chapter 34 UNLOCKED
Lena was confused by the way the man in front of her stared. It wasn't just curiosity, it was as if he recognized her, as though he were trying to place a memory he couldn't quite reach. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, unreadable and strangely intense.
Well, if they were somehow acquainted, maybe that would work in her favor. She stepped forward, brushing aside the tension in the air.
"Please, I'd like to see Vincent," she said calmly.
"Vincent?" he echoed, his voice low, almost cautious.
"Yes," she nodded quickly. "Please just tell him I'm here. I won't waste his time, I only need a brief moment."
But he didn't move. He didn't respond. He just stood there... watching her. Silent. Still. As though he were weighing something heavy in his mind.
Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and extended it toward her.
"Hi," he said with a faint, almost amused smile. "I'm Vincent."
Lena froze. Her breath caught in her throat. For a second, she just stared at him, unsure if she had heard him correctly.
"You're... Vincent?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded. "Yes."
Something in his eyes softened, but the tension in the air didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.
All the rage came rushing back. She hadn't expected Vincent to look this calm composed, almost gentle but that didn't change a thing. This was him. The man who had tried to strip her father of everything. The man who now stood in front of her like none of it had ever happened.
"My name is Lena Carter," she said sharply, eyes narrowing. "David Carter's daughter."
The name didn't seem to strike any chord in him. He just kept looking at her, a slight fascination in his expression, as if he were studying a work of art.
"I heard from my landlord," she continued, voice steady but tight, "that you took some paintings from my father's studio. Said he owed you money."
She took a step closer, her fists clenched. "Please... I'll repay what he owes. But those paintings, those ones you took they weren't for sale. They were from his private archive."
That finally broke through.
Vincent blinked slowly. Something shifted in his eyes. "You're... the artist's daughter?" he asked, still slightly dazed.
"Yes," she replied firmly, holding his gaze.
His mind seemed to race, replaying fragments of memory. A painting of his daughter, that's why he had painted her with such tenderness, such care. A girl with fierce eyes and a quiet strength.
So that's why... he thought. That's why he painted her like that. With so much love in his eyes.
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, almost involuntarily.
Lena didn't like the way he was reacting too calm, too detached, almost like something was off with him. He didn't seem fully present, like he was hearing her but not really listening.
"So please," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "how much does he owe you? I'll repay it. Whatever the amount is."
Vincent took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, his eyes still lingering on her like she was part of a puzzle he was trying to piece together.
"It's not about the money anymore," he said quietly. "In fact, I don't need the money at all. I just want what he promised as collateral."
That struck a nerve. Lena's expression hardened.
"Do you even understand what I'm telling you?" she snapped, her temper finally breaking through. "Those paintings are the last of his works the last. They weren't meant to be sold. They weren't even meant to leave the studio. Please, I beg you... I really need them back."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she blinked hard against the sting in her eyes. She was fighting tears now, every inch of her body tense with emotion.
But Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't soften. He didn't even look remotely moved.
"Those aren't the last of his artworks anymore," he said coolly. "Because they now belong to me."
His words hit like ice.
"They were legally transferred," he continued. "And I'm not selling them back."
Vincent reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, black card his private contact. He held it out to her with that same unsettling calm.
"If you really want those paintings back," he said, his voice low, "you're going to need a lot more than just money."
He smiled not kindly. It was the kind of smile that made her skin crawl. Cryptic. Calculated.
"Make sure you give me a call," he added. "Maybe when I'm in a better mood, I'll reconsider."
And with that, he turned away, walking slowly back down the corridor. But as he passed her, he stole one last glance sharp, unreadable, and lingering just a moment too long.
Lena stood frozen. Her fingers clenched around the card. This wasn't what she'd expected. Not even close. She had imagined resistance, maybe denial but not this strange, almost theatrical detachment.
It felt like she'd just walked into something deeper. Something... off.
"Wait " she called after him, her voice shaky but determined.
But before she could move any further, the young man from the gate stepped forward and gently but firmly gestured for her to leave.
"This way, ma'am."
She hesitated, then followed him, still gripping the card tightly in her hand.
As the gates shut behind her, Lena stood outside, dazed. The weight of what just happened settled slowly on her shoulders.
What did he mean by more than money?
And why did he look at her like that?
Well... whatever the case may be, at least she had made a bit of progress, Lena told herself. She had spoken to Vincent directly that alone was more than most people could manage. And maybe, just maybe, she could still convince him to return the paintings peacefully.
He's a dangerous man, she reminded herself. But I walked in and out of there untouched. That had to count for something.
She clung to that thought, gripping the steering wheel as she settled into the driver's seat. She tried to steady her breathing, to believe everything was still under control. This is progress, she whispered. I'm not giving up.
The engine purred to life, and she drove off, refusing to let herself look back.
But just as her car disappeared down the road, three black SUVs glided to a halt in front of the warehouse. Their engines were silent, but the air suddenly turned heavy.
Inside, Vincent hadn't gone far. He stood just beyond the entrance, watching Lena drive off through a high, narrow window.
As Vincent saw the SUVs park in front of the warehouse, a slow grin spread across his face. He cracked his knuckles with a faint pop, then whispered to himself, almost gleefully,
"Time for a little fun."
Chaos was his element. Vincent prided himself on being difficult, impossible, even. Nothing ever went smoothly when he and his crew were involved. That wasn't by accident. It was by design.
People didn't cross him because of what he did. They feared how much he enjoyed it.
The doors of the SUVs opened, and several men stepped out. Suited, controlled... Their movements were precise calculated.
Vincent didn't flinch. He leaned slightly on the railing above, watching them approach like a man welcoming guests to a show he'd already choreographed.
"Let's see what they want," he muttered, still smiling.
He turned and headed down the steps, his coat brushing against the metal rails, footsteps echoing faintly unbothered, and absolutely amused.