Chapter 3 - An ocean Between Lives
The lecture hall at the Courtauld Institute of Art smelled of beeswax, damp stone, and centuries of preserved canvas.
I took my seat in the third row, pulling a leather-bound notebook from my bag and uncapping my fountain pen. Around me, students from Tokyo, Milan, Berlin, and Manhattan were debating the authenticity of a recently rediscovered Dutch master painting. Nobody here knew that my estranged husband’s signature could shut down the Port of Chicago. Nobody here cared that my wedding had been guarded by men carrying concealed submachine guns beneath Brioni tuxedos.
Here, I was simply Claire Bennett, a master’s candidate in Art Appraisal and Provenance Research.
"The key to identifying a forgery," Professor Vance’s voice echoed off the wood-paneled walls, "is not merely analyzing the pigment or the weave of the linen. It is analyzing the intent. A master paints out of an undeniable necessity of vision. A forger paints to mimic what they believe the world wishes to see."
I wrote the words down, feeling their resonance settle deep into my bones.
For five years, I had been a forger. I had carefully constructed the persona of the poised, untouchable mafia consort, smiling beside Adrian at charity galas while my husband spent half the night on his encrypted phone, murmuring reassurance to another woman who claimed her panic attacks could only be cured by the sound of his voice.
Class adjourned at four in the afternoon. As I stepped out into the misty drizzle of Strand, the chill in the air felt invigorating. I wrapped my wool scarf tighter around my throat, preparing to walk toward the tube station, when a deep, cultured voice interrupted my stride.
"Pardon me, Miss Bennett?"
I turned. Standing beneath an umbrella near the stone arches was a tall man in his late thirties, wearing a charcoal overcoat and a charcoal-gray tweed scarf. He had an angular, patrician face, intelligent hazel eyes, and a mild, composed smile.
"Julian Thorne," he introduced himself, extending a gloved hand. "Alistair mentioned you'd be joining the seminar this term. He told me you wrote a devastatingly sharp critique on the illicit antiquities trade through private maritime ports two years ago."
I shook his hand, surprised. Julian Thorne was a name I recognized instantly; he was the junior director of the Thorne-Ellsworth Gallery in Mayfair, one of the most respected private appraisal houses in Europe, known for handling acquisitions for old European families and international museums.
"I didn't think anyone read that paper," I admitted. "My husband’s lawyers... suggested I shelve the publishing rights."
Julian’s eyes crinkled with quiet amusement. "Well, Alistair kept a draft. And having read it, I can say it would have caused quite a stir among shipping magnates. Which, I suspect, was precisely the problem." He gestured toward the rain-slicked pavement. "I'm heading toward Covent Garden for an appraisal meeting. May I walk with you, or are you expecting an escort?"
"I don't need an escort," I said, the words feeling remarkably sweet on my tongue. "Not anymore."
As we walked along the damp London streets, Julian didn't pry into my past, nor did he attempt to impress me with unprompted displays of dominance. Instead, he asked about my focus on Italian Renaissance provenances, listening intently to my theories without interrupting. It was a mundane, civilized interaction, yet to me, it felt like discovering water after surviving an arid desert.
Across the street, however, a black sedan with tinted windows remained idling against the curb.
Inside the vehicle, Marco lowered his camera, his thumb swiftly scrolling through the high-resolution images he had just captured: Claire laughing softly at something Julian said, Claire taking a sip from a paper cup, Claire crossing the street without looking back over her shoulder.
Marco dialed Chicago. The line connected before the first ring finished.
"Did you find her?" Adrian’s voice was ragged, devoid of sleep.
"She’s in London, Boss," Marco said carefully. "South Kensington. She’s enrolled at the institute, just like your father’s intelligence report indicated. She took a flat."
"Bring her to the embassy. Charter my private jet. Tell her—"
"Boss," Marco interrupted gently, his voice heavy with the grim realization of a man who had known Claire for years. "She didn't use the credit cards. She didn't use the offshore stipend. She’s paying her tuition with the scholarship fund her grandmother left her. And... she’s not alone."
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute, terrifying in its stillness.
"Who is he?" Adrian asked, his voice dropping into the terrifyingly calm register he used right before someone was permanently removed from his payroll.
"Julian Thorne. Old British money, clean family, director at a premier Mayfair gallery. They’re walking together near Covent Garden right now." Marco hesitated. "Boss... she isn't hiding. She isn't crying. She looks... she looks happy."
A sharp, violent crack echoed through the speaker—the sound of Adrian’s hand slamming down onto the solid oak desk in his Chicago tower.
May you like
"Send me the address," Adrian commanded, the line vibrating with an obsessive, possessive fury. "And tell the airfield at O’Hare to have the Gulfstream fueled. I’m coming to London."
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