Chapter 29 RAGE
"You boys are so damn useless!" Vincent snapped, his voice echoing through the warehouse. "How the hell did you drop it? How careless can you be?"
The boy kept his head down, trembling, blood still trickling from his nose.
Ben raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against a crate. "Yo... you've started collecting paintings now?"
Vincent didn't answer right away. He turned back to the boy and barked, "Fix it! Or I'll break both of your legs, you hear me?" The boy fled without a word, disappearing down the corridor.
"I'm not really interested in paintings," Vincent finally said, dusting his hands like the interruption meant nothing. "Just these particular ones."
"Really? Are they that good?" Ben asked, now curious.
Vincent's face shifted, his usual smirk replaced with something rarer, almost reverent.
"They're incredible," he said, his voice lower now. "Made by this one artist. He's dead now. I went to his studio once... years ago. I just needed a piece for my hallway something to fill the space."
He paused, eyes narrowing with the memory.
"But then I saw him working. This beautiful piece. Mesmerizing. I asked if he'd sell it, I even offered him a good price too but he said it wasn't for sale. Said it was personal."
Vincent shook his head slowly. "I could never forget that piece.It was a painting of a young woman," he said quietly. "She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen; something about her. It was haunting. The kind of face you don't forget."
"I asked him who she was," Vincent continued, "but he just smiled and didn't reply. I figured maybe she was someone from his past or maybe just a face from his imagination. But whatever it was, he painted her like he loved her."
As the words left his mouth, something shifted in Vincent. A flicker of unease crossed his face, his jaw tightening. Without another word, he turned sharply and started walking fast towards the storage room where the stolen paintings had been kept.
"Vincent?" Ben called, confused.
Vincent didn't answer.
"What's wrong?" Ben asked, now jogging to keep up.
Vincent didn't answer
"But wait, how did you end up getting the paintings?" Ben asked as they reached the corridor leading to the storage room.
Vincent didn't look back. "He never sold them. Not to me, not to anyone. But he's dead now..." He paused, pushing open the door to the dimly lit room. "So I took them."
Ben frowned slightly. "You took them?"
"I don't want such beautiful work wasting away," Vincent said casually, as though he were doing the world a favor. He walked between the crates like he was searching for something specific. "They were just sitting there, collecting dust. Forgotten."
"But doesn't he have a family? Someone who could claim them?" Ben asked, glancing around uneasily.
Vincent shrugged. "I'm not sure they even care. The gallery looks like it's falling apart... almost abandoned."
Ben nodded slowly but kept his eyes on Vincent. "Still, someone must have kept it open all this time. Someone must've loved his work."
Vincent didn't respond. He unwrapped one canvas after another, his movements growing sharper with each disappointment. Landscape. Still life. A street scene. None of them were her. None of them had that face.
Frustration simmered just beneath his skin.
Then the door creaked open behind him.
One of the boys stepped in, carrying a painting with an awkward grip; its frame was cracked, the canvas torn slightly along the edge. He froze the moment he saw Vincent standing there, his face already twisted in frustration.
Vincent turned, eyes falling on the broken portrait. His breath caught for a second.
It was her.
The young woman from the painting.
The one he had never forgotten.
His expression shifted instantly from shock to rage. Pure, dangerous rage.
He charged forward, fists clenched, eyes locked on the boy. The young man began backing away in fear, nearly tripping over himself.
"You idiot!" Vincent roared, snatching the painting from his hands. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"
The boy's face turned pale, panic taking over as he continued to retreat.
Vincent lunged forward again, murder flashing in his eyes but Ben stepped in, grabbing his arm and holding him back.
"Calm down," Ben said firmly, gripping him tighter. "You could kill him in this state, Vincent. Over a painting."
"He broke her," Vincent snarled, trying to pull free.
"I know," Ben said, not letting go, "but breaking him won't fix it"
Vincent stood there, breathing hard, his grip still tight on the damaged portrait. The fury in his eyes hadn't faded but now, it was mingled with something else. Loss
Ethan couldn't focus.
He sat at his desk, the conference call long over, but the words from earlier still echoing in his mind. His eyes flicked to the clock again it was late. Too late. Still no word from Lena.
He told himself for the hundredth time that it was none of his business. That Lena was stubborn, independent, and more than capable of handling herself. But the longer the silence stretched, the more that logic started to fall apart.
He picked up his phone and called her.
No reply.
He called again. Then again. Still nothing.
Now his calm was beginning to crack. He tried not to show it, but the tension in his jaw, the way he gripped the phone tighter with each attempt it was all there, just beneath the surface.
Frustrated, he stood up and dialed his head of security. "Track the car Lena used," he ordered sharply. "I need her location now."
Minutes later, the report came in.
Her car was parked in one of the most dangerous parts of the city deep in the underbelly of Melbourne. Known territory for criminals, drug dealers..
"Should we go get her?" one of the security men asked.
Ethan hesitated, indecision flashing in his eyes. Before he could respond, his phone rang a call from the gate.
"She's here," the voice on the other end said.
Relief swept through him as he hung up.
Moments later, Lena parked the car and walked into the house. She looked worn out emotionally drained, her steps heavy with silence.
"What were you thinking, going to a place like that?" Ethan snapped, his tone sharp with concern masked as anger.
"Please show me to my room," she said quietly, her face unreadable.
"You're a Sinclair now. A public figure," he continued, his voice rising. "You can't be found in such places. What if something had happened to you? Do you have any idea the kind of backlash I'd face? Don't make trouble for me, Lena."
"Trouble?" she echoed softly, her voice cracking.
Almost in tears, she swallowed hard and repeated, "Please... just show me to my room."
Ethan signaled to a maid, who quickly stepped forward to guide her. Lena walked away briskly, head low, her posture stiff with suppressed emotion.
He stood still, staring after her.
Thank God she was safe but the look on her face... he had never seen Lena like that before.