Chapter 168: He Ultimately Failed to Control His Own Fate
Oliver's reply came fast.
An audio clip pushed through directly. No encryption, no conversion. Live.
Chase's voice leaked out of the phone speaker — low-pitched, each sentence delivered with a kind of habitual control, the pauses between them almost perfectly even.
"Uncle Julian, there's a problem with the authentication on Lot 17."
Julian went quiet for two seconds. "I know."
"Who did it?"
"Nora Thorne. Atlas's sister."
Chase didn't ask how Nora had gotten hold of a disqualified appraiser's credentials. He asked only one question.
"Is the painting still up?"
"Bidding's been suspended. The auction house is running a trace."
"Pull the painting. Tonight."
Julian's tone suddenly hardened. "Chase, you're the one who approved putting this painting up for auction. If we pull it now, the paperwork with the auction house—"
"I don't care about the paperwork. That painting cannot spend the night at the auction house." Chase paused. "Uncle Julian. You know better than I do what's inside that painting."
The call ended.
Nora turned her phone face-down on her knee.
You know better than I do what's inside that painting.
The reverse was also true — Chase knew there was something in the painting, but he didn't know exactly what.
Nora's mind ran through it in three seconds: Julian had sent the painting to auction to launder the source of some funds. Chase had signed off on it. But now that Nora had stopped it right here in the room, Chase's first instinct wasn't to challenge the authentication — it was to demand the painting be pulled immediately.
He was afraid of it ending up in someone else's hands.
Nora stood up.
The hum of the auction hall hadn't died down yet. The noise was loudest from the VIP section up front — collectors feared nothing more than buying something with disputed authentication. Once trust cracked, it dragged down the prices of everything else in the sale.
Julian was on his feet.
He didn't make a scene. Not in a room like this. But when he looked at Nora, every muscle in his face was pulled tight. He couldn't even hold his smile together.
"Ms. Thorne, I can explain the provenance of this painting—"
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Flynn."
Nora cut him off.
She didn't face Julian. She turned around, toward the full room — the collectors, the press, everyone seated in the hall.
"I am one of the legal heirs to this painting's creator. This painting was never authorized for sale."
She held up her phone screen.
A scanned legal document — an estate trusteeship declaration issued by an overseas law firm. The letterhead bore the gold-embossed logo of a long-established London firm, and the name of the principal was clearly printed:
Atlas Walsh.
Listed as heirs: Nora Thorne. Todd Walsh.
The room went quiet for the second time.
This silence was different from the first. The first had been about a problem with the authentication — that was the auction house's business, not really anyone else's, just something to watch.
But the name Atlas Walsh changed everything.
Two older men in the front row turned around at the same time to look at Nora. They had known Atlas.
Anyone who had gone deep enough into the art world had heard the story of Lotus Rain and its personal seal. The finance world even more so — the deals Atlas had run while he was alive were still being used as case studies.
And the young woman standing at the edge of the auction stage was Atlas's sister.
Julian's throat moved. He opened his mouth, still trying to say something.
The door to the back of the auction house swung open.
A French man in his fifties walked out at a quick pace. His suit was immaculate, his cufflinks white gold, and pinned to his lapel was a diamond badge — the highest internal designation at Harlow & Fitch.
European Director, Pierre Delacroix.
Nora had met him twice in London.
Pierre walked up to Nora. No handshake.
A slight bow.
"Margeaux. It's been a while."
He spoke in French. Not loudly, but the front rows heard it.
"Shall we initiate the trace?"
Margeaux.
Margeaux Thorne.
Within Harlow & Fitch, that name corresponded to a specific role — anonymous advisory committee member for the Asia-Pacific region. The total estimated value of pieces she authenticated each year exceeded two billion dollars.
Fewer than five people in the room knew that.
But Pierre Delacroix's bow had just told everyone who didn't.
The European Director of Harlow & Fitch didn't bow to a regular guest appraiser.
Nora answered in French. "Go ahead. I need a full trace report on Lot 17 — all consignment documents and the complete money trail."
Pierre nodded. Before turning back to the rear, he glanced at Julian — not with hostility, just the flat indifference of someone doing their job, but it was enough to drain another shade from Julian's face.
Calla was sitting next to Julian.
She hadn't moved since Nora stepped onto the viewing walkway. Both hands rested neatly in her lap, back straight against her chair. No turning her head, no exchanging glances with Julian.
But as Nora passed, she noticed — the hands in Calla's lap, the fingertips were white.
She was gripping too hard.
Nora stepped down from the viewing walkway.
At the end of the aisle, Julian was in her way.
Not obviously — he was standing at a slight angle, as if he'd just happened to be passing through. But the position was precise. To get by, Nora would have to go around him, or stop.
Nora didn't go around.
She stopped.
"Ms. Thorne. That painting — Atlas left it with me willingly."
Julian kept his voice low. Less than a meter between them. Everyone else in the room could see them standing face to face, but couldn't hear a word.
"He left it with you to keep. Not to sell."
"Before Atlas passed, he told me many things. There are things you may not know—"
"Mr. Flynn." Nora cut him off a second time. "Everything that belonged to Atlas, I'm taking back. One piece at a time. This painting is the first."
She turned to leave.
Julian suddenly dropped his voice — low enough that only she could hear.
"You're just like Atlas. Always had to keep everything in your own hands. But you're forgetting something, Ms. Thorne — in the end, he couldn't keep hold of his own life."
Nora's step faltered.
Just briefly. Short enough that Ryder, six meters away, didn't catch it.
Then she kept walking.
Out through the side door of the banquet hall, down a corridor that connected to the hotel's private car drop-off.
A dark grey Maybach was already waiting at the end of the passage. Not a driver at the wheel. Oliver was driving.
The window came down.
"Get in."
Nora pulled open the passenger door and sat down.
The door closed. Silence settled inside the car. The air conditioning was set low, the vent aimed toward her side.
Oliver didn't start the engine.
He turned toward her.
Nora was looking down, straightening her neckline — the velvet had been blown askew, folded back to reveal the deep-toned pattern underneath.