Chapter 6 - THE VAULT AND THE TRAP
Preston’s grip on Anna’s wrist tightened like a vice.
Panic flared in her chest, but Anna forced her face into a mask of polite confusion. "Sir, you're hurting me."
"Anna Morgan," Preston hissed, leaning in so close she could smell the expensive scotch on his breath. "You actually thought a pair of glasses would work? In my father’s building?"
He yanked her toward the side corridor, away from the glittering crowd. Anna’s free hand desperately dug into her apron pocket, her fingers closing around the padded box containing the solvent vials. She needed a distraction. Now.
As Preston dragged her past a towering floral arrangement, Anna twisted her body, using her momentum to slam the silver tray of champagne directly into his chest.
Glass shattered. Champagne soaked his bespoke tuxedo.
Preston shouted in shock, releasing her wrist.
"Security!" he roared.
Anna didn't run away. She ran directly into the chaos. She sprinted past the shocked guests, diving behind the thick velvet curtains that lined the perimeter of the ballroom. She knew this floor better than the architects. Behind the curtains was the narrow maintenance corridor used by the waitstaff to restock the bars invisibly.
She sprinted down the dark hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could hear the heavy boots of security guards rushing into the ballroom.
She reached the end of the corridor and keyed in the passcode for the atrium’s secondary door—a code she had watched the manager type in a hundred times. 4-0-9-9.
The lock clicked green. Anna slipped inside.
The atrium was silent, climate-controlled, and breathtaking. The twelve paintings were mounted on individual floating walls, illuminated by pristine gallery spotlights.
Through the glass walls, she could see Damian Blackwood shaking hands with a tall man in traditional Emirati robes—the buyer. They were walking toward the atrium. She had less than three minutes.
Anna pulled on her latex gloves and uncapped the first vial of the enzymatic gel. The smell of ammonia and citrus filled the air.
She moved to the first painting—a generic, beautiful landscape of a sunset over the ocean. Taking a specialized conservation swab from her pocket, she began applying the thick, clear gel in wide, sweeping strokes across the center of the canvas.
She moved to the second. Then the third.
The gel was completely invisible once applied. It wouldn't react. Not until the UV lights hit it.
She was on the ninth painting when the main atrium doors hummed open.
"As you can see, Your Highness," Damian’s smooth, cultured voice echoed into the room, "this collection represents the missing link in Muski’s evolution as an artist."
Anna ducked hard behind the floating wall of the tenth painting.
Through the narrow gap, she watched Damian, the buyer, and three massive guards walk into the center of the room. Preston entered a moment later, still dripping champagne, his face purple with rage. He marched directly to his father and whispered in his ear.
Damian’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes turned dead. He nodded slightly to the guards.
"Lock the doors," Damian said quietly.
The heavy glass doors slid shut with a definitive click.
"We have a rat in the walls, gentlemen," Damian announced to the empty room, his voice dripping with venom. "Come out, Ms. Morgan. There's nowhere left to run."
Anna squeezed her eyes shut. She had three paintings left to swab. But she had enough. Nine was enough to prove the fraud.
She slowly stood up and stepped out from behind the wall.
Damian looked at her, then at the latex gloves on her hands. He began to laugh.
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"You came to vandalize them?" Damian asked, amused. "You threw your life away to throw some paint thinner on my canvases?"
"I didn't come to destroy them, Damian," Anna said, her voice steady, echoing off the glass walls. "I came to restore them."
