Chapter 125
Serena
I paused, letting the weight of that image settle over the room. A few of the women had stopped pretending to be disinterested now, their gazes fixed on me with something close to fascination.
"Art historians call it 'Monet's Last Glimpse into Hell,'" I continued, my voice dropping into something quieter, more reverent. "Or heaven, depending on who you ask. But what no one disputes is this: it's the only work in his entire career where he abandoned the soft, dreamlike palette of Impressionism and painted something wild. Something almost violent. The brushstrokes are frantic, chaotic, nothing like the serene water lilies we associate with him. It's as if he was trying to capture not what he saw, but what he felt—the terror, the beauty, the inevitability of losing everything."
Evelyn's expression had shifted from smug to confused, her brow furrowing as she tried to follow what I was saying. But Beatrice—Beatrice's eyes were lit up now, a spark of something fierce and hungry flickering there, and I knew I had her.
"It's the only red-toned water lily painting Monet ever created," I finished, meeting Beatrice's gaze head-on. "And its potential is limitless."
"God," Beatrice breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had no idea it had such a beautiful backstory."
"Beatrice," Evelyn cut in sharply, her tone edged with desperation. "She could be making all of this up. You don't know her. God knows what kind of scheme she's running—"
"Evelyn." The voice that interrupted wasn't mine. It belonged to a tall, silver-haired woman standing near the window, her arms crossed over her chest as she regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and approval. "I may not know this girl personally, but I do know she graduated from Yale with a double degree. And her grandfather, Peter Vance, was one of the most respected art historians in New York. If she says it's worth fifty million, I'm inclined to believe her."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, and I felt the tide shift again, this time in my favor. Beatrice's gaze hadn't left my face, and when I spoke again, my voice was calm, controlled, almost gentle.
"So, Lady Beatrice," I said softly. "Now that we've established what your painting is truly worth... may I speak with you privately about this fifty-million-dollar transaction?"
Beatrice opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Evelyn stepped forward, her expression tight with barely concealed panic.
"Beatrice, you can't," Evelyn said, her voice softening into something almost wounded. "You promised you'd come to my home tonight. We've had this planned for weeks." She glanced around at the other women, as if seeking their support. "Surely a business meeting can wait a day or two? You wouldn't want to break a commitment to an old friend over... well, over someone you've only just met."
Her hand drifted up, fingers brushing lightly against the pearl necklace at Beatrice's throat, the gesture so casual it might have seemed unconscious if not for the deliberate way she let her touch linger. "Besides," she added with a small, meaningful smile, "I did just bring you that little something today. It would be such a shame to cut our evening short when we've barely had a chance to celebrate it properly."
Beatrice hesitated, her gaze flicking between Evelyn and me, and I felt my stomach drop. She was wavering. I could see it in the slight tightening of her mouth, the way her fingers brushed absently over the pearls as if weighing her options.
No. No, no, no. I was so close. I couldn't lose this now.
And then my eyes locked onto the necklace. Really locked onto it. The way the light hit the surface, the faint iridescence that should have been there but wasn't, the too-perfect uniformity of the beads. Something about it was wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.
I didn't think. I just spoke.
"Mrs. Holland," I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "You're in such a hurry to leave. Is it because you're afraid that if I look any closer, I'll not only close a fifty-million-dollar deal with Lady Beatrice, but I'll also realize that the necklace you gave her today is worth about fifty dollars?"
Evelyn's face went white. Bone white. "You're lying," she hissed, her voice shaking. "I bought this from a top-tier auction house in London!"
I took a step closer, my gaze fixed on the necklace. "Authentic 19th-century pearl craftsmanship uses natural silk thread and a specific type of fish-skin adhesive. Under light, it produces a faint violet hue." I gestured toward the chandelier above us. "But what you've given her? That's modern polymer resin. The refraction is all wrong. And if I'm not mistaken—"
I reached out, my fingers brushing lightly against one of the pearls, and watched as a tiny flake of coating came away under my touch.
"—the surface lacquer is already peeling," I finished, holding up my finger so everyone could see the telltale shimmer. "Passing off cheap knockoffs as antiques isn't just an insult to Lady Beatrice's taste. It's an insult to everyone in this room."
Beatrice moved before I could say another word, stepping closer to one of the lamps and tilting her head so the light caught the necklace at a sharper angle. Her expression darkened as she stared at the pearls, and when she straightened, her mouth was set in a thin, furious line.
She unclasped the necklace with sharp, deliberate movements and held it out to Evelyn, her voice cold enough to freeze blood.
"Take it back."
Evelyn stammered, her hands fumbling as she reached for the necklace. "I—I must have grabbed the wrong one. I had two, you see, and I—"
"Save it," Beatrice said flatly. "And leave."