A Fortune for Art

The man's face was completely foreign, buried beneath heavy layers of fake weathering and age, but I would know that dead, soulless stare anywhere. He was a master of disguise. He had butchered me while standing at least six-foot-one, moving with lethal precision, yet now he was hunched over like a frail pensioner.

Being trapped in the same room as my murderer sent a phantom spike of absolute terror through my ethereal form. The sheer brutality of that night rushed back. He had slipped behind me without a single sound, driving a blade into my spine with the practiced ease of a professional.

I had spent my entire life trying to be kind. I didn't have enemies who ordered hits in the dark.

Could he be a professional killer? But if he had already finished his job by putting me in the ground, what the hell was he doing here? Did he have another target?

My deepest human instinct screamed at me to run, to scramble away from those bloodshot eyes. Then the crushing weight of reality settled over me again. I was already a ghost. There was nothing left for him to kill.

Declan carelessly patted the stranger's hunched shoulder, not even bothering to look at him. "It's fine, don't worry about it," he muttered.

But the disguised killer didn't spare Declan a single glance. His emotionless gaze remained fixed past me, radiating the exact same chilling indifference I felt seconds before my death.

I stood absolutely frozen. Could he somehow see me?

"Uncle Kieran," Declan called out in a low, respectful voice.

The sudden greeting snapped my attention sideways. I followed the killer's line of sight and realized he wasn't looking at me at all. His focus was entirely locked onto Kieran, who sat quietly in his wheelchair just a few feet away.

The man stepped forward. Panicking over the memory of his ruthless efficiency, I threw my weightless body forward, desperately spreading my arms to shield Kieran from whatever weapon might be hidden in that coat.

But the killer simply walked right through my translucent arms, passing by without striking.

Dante smoothly pushed Kieran's wheelchair forward until they stopped directly in front of my husband. Kieran's dark eyes were freezing cold, radiating a quiet hostility that immediately put Declan on edge.

"From what I understand, Serena hasn't been seen since your wedding ceremony," Kieran stated, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient chatter. "Yet here you are, browsing an art exhibition."

It felt like a sick joke. Of all the people in my life—my family, my supposed husband—the only person actively interrogating anyone about my disappearance was a man I barely knew.

"Serena is an adult. She goes wherever she pleases," Declan replied, his tone dripping with careless arrogance. "She's always been stubborn. Once she gets tired of throwing her little tantrum, she'll come home."

"And what if something has actually happened to her?" Kieran pressed, unyielding.

A flash of genuine uncertainty crossed Declan's sharp features. Before he could formulate a response, Maya stepped in, seamlessly taking control of the narrative.

"Uncle Kieran, Serena is perfectly safe," she said smoothly. "She left for Mistfall a while ago."

Declan whipped his head toward her. "What are you talking about?"

"I just heard from some relatives out there today, Declan," Maya lied without missing a single beat. "Apparently, she asked them to arrange a place for her to stay over a month ago."

She was twisting the truth with terrifying skill. I had always loved Mistfall, dreaming of its lush mountains and quiet flower-lined roads. I really had booked a flight there for the day after the wedding. My plan was to expose their disgusting affair at the ceremony, sever the ties between our families, and start over somewhere beautiful.

"I checked just to be absolutely sure," Maya continued, her voice the picture of innocent concern. "She definitely booked a flight to Mistfall for the fifteenth."

Relief instantly morphed into ugly, self-righteous fury on Declan's face. "No wonder nobody could track her down! She just vanished without bothering to tell a single soul!"

"Try not to be too angry with her, Declan," Maya murmured, resting a comforting hand on his arm. "Serena has never really considered how her actions affect anyone else. We're all used to her doing exactly what she wants."

I let out a bitter, silent laugh. If Declan cared enough to do even a basic search, he would see the airline record showing I never boarded that plane. Instead, he blindly swallowed every word Maya fed him.

As I looked away from my furious husband, I caught a faint, dark smirk resting on Kieran's lips. His piercing gaze made it seem like he was looking right through their pathetic performance.

"Let's hope you don't live to regret this," Kieran stated coldly.

Why would he phrase it like that? Did Kieran actually know I was gone?

Declan frowned, clearly unsettled by the ominous warning, but Dante was already turning the wheelchair around.

"The auction is starting, Declan," Maya urged, tugging on his sleeve. "We should find our seats."

I followed them inside but kept my focus on the periphery, scanning the dense crowd for my murderer.

I spotted him hiding out of the main lights. He stood perfectly still in a shadowed corner of the grand hall, keeping a sinister, unblinking watch over Declan.

The pieces stopped making sense. If Maya had hired him to eliminate me, they would have made eye contact or exchanged some kind of signal. There was nothing. Was he not working for her? And if they didn't coordinate this, where on earth was my body?

"Three million."

Declan's voice echoed through the auction hall. He was bidding on one of my stolen paintings, fully believing it was Maya's work, eager to publicly flaunt his devotion to her. Maya stood close beside him, her cheeks flushed with manufactured shyness.

The surrounding elites whispered their admiration, praising the tight bond between the two siblings. It was nauseating. If this high-society crowd knew what they had been doing behind closed doors, they would tear them apart.

"Five million," a chilling voice called out from the back.

I spun around. Kieran had his bidding paddle raised. Why was he bidding on this?

The atmosphere in the massive room tightened. Invisible sparks seemed to fly across the rows of chairs. It was painfully obvious to Declan that Kieran was challenging him directly.

"Eight million," Declan barked, his competitive ego taking over.

Kieran didn't even blink. He lifted his paddle again. "Eighty million."

A collective gasp ripped through the audience. Had he lost his mind? He just bid eighty million dollars for that painting!

Declan sat paralyzed in his chair, thoroughly humiliated. Without breaking a sweat, Kieran proceeded to dominate the floor, securing the next two pieces at equally astronomical, logic-defying prices.

The moment the event concluded, I drifted outside and found Declan storming up to Kieran's waiting luxury car.

Declan grabbed the edge of the open door, his face flushed with extreme frustration. "Uncle Kieran, you just threw over two hundred million dollars at three canvases. When Grandpa hears about this stunt—"

Kieran slowly raised his eyes, fixing his nephew with a look of absolute, freezing disdain.

"Do I look like a disappointment like you?" he interrupted, his voice dropping the temperature of the air between them.

Declan flinched. He hadn't officially taken control of the Sterling empire yet, meaning his personal capital was strictly limited. Kieran had just publicly and effortlessly crushed him with his own wealth.

"Uncle Kieran, is there some sort of misunderstanding between us?" Declan asked, trying and failing to regain his footing.

Kieran stared back with a level of intense, deeply rooted hatred I had never seen before.

"Declan," Kieran said softly, the threat heavy in his tone. "I am not letting it slide this time."