Page 59 of Until She's Mine
Lucian’s hand closes around my wrist. “We’re leaving.”
I don’t resist as Lucian pulls me to my feet. My legs feel like they might give out beneath me, but I force myself to move, to follow him out of the restaurant and into the cold, rain-soaked night. The door swings shut behind us, cutting off Tobias’s last words, but they linger in the air like poison.
He leads me to the waiting town car, his face a mask of controlled fury. The driver opens the door for us, and I slide into the back seat, my body trembling despite the warmth of the car’s interior. Lucian climbs in beside me.
He doesn’t speak until the heater is blasting, then forces me to meet his eyes.
“Look at me.” His breath is hot on my frozen lips. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” The lie tastes like guilt. Like blood on the sidewalk outside the dormitory.
His thumb traces my cheekbone.
Lucian knows.
Of course, Lucian knows.
“Your forgery was sold to the Getty last year,” he says. “I bought it back from them privately. It’s in the basement of the Adirondacks estate.”
Silence fills the space, and I stare out of the window to Manhattan’s glittering streets, trembling, and rememberingthatday.
Chapter 28
Evelyn
Three Years Ago
The smell of linseed oil and turpentine clings to my skin as I scrub at the cobalt blue paint staining my cuticles. The pigment won’t budge—just like Claire’s voice still ringing in my ears from 20 minutes ago when she’d burst into my studio space.
“I know what you’re doing, Evelyn. Those Caravaggio sketches are forgeries, aren’t they? You’re copying them, selling them as originals. Does Professor Hayes know you are using his name to authenticate them?”
I walked away without answering. The only thought in my head was:this is it.
My career is over. My life is ruined.
After all, Claire isn’t just any classmate. She is a Vasser, old money wrapped in a cashmere sweater set, the kind of girl who’d never need to sell fake sketches to cover her dead mother’s medical bills and college tuition fees.
My hands shake so badly that I drop the rag into the sink, sending droplets of paint-flecked water onto my knit dress. I stare at the spreading stain. The room is silent except for the steady drip of a leaky faucet. I lean against the sink, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
Through the partially open bathroom door, I glance at the sketches on my desk, the ones I’ve spent countless nights perfecting—meticulous replicas of Caravaggio’s work, so flawless they could pass for the originals. Professor Hayes asked the class to replicate one of his paintings as a final project for his advanced restoration workshop. But I went further, pushing the boundaries of imitation until my sketches were indistinguishable from the master’s work. And then, when the opportunity arose to sell one as a rediscovered original, I couldn’t resist. The money was too good, too necessary.
A sharp knock at my door makes me jump.
“Evelyn? Open up!” Claire’s voice is slurred but determined. She’s been drinking—I can hear it in the way her words tumble over each other, in the uneven rhythm of her knocking. There was a fraternity party tonight, and I’m sure she’s coming straight from there. The thought makes my stomach churn. Drunk Claire is unpredictable, and right now, unpredictability is the last thing I need.
I hesitate, my hand hovering over the doorknob.
“Evelyn, I know you’re in there!” The pounding continues. “Open the door or I’ll—”
When I finally open the door, Claire stumbles in, her cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol and righteous indignation. Shesmells like citrus vodka and the Chanel No. 5 her grandmother sends every birthday.
“You’re a fraud,” she slurs, her finger jabbing at my chest as she wobbles on her heels. “A fucking fraud, Evelyn. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.”
The wind blows through my open fourth-floor window. I cross my arms across my chest, trying to stay warm. “Claire, you’re drunk. Let’s talk about this tomorrow when—”
“Don’t patronize me!” she shouts, cutting me off. “You think I’m stupid? That I’ll just forget about this? No, Evelyn. This is serious. This is a crime. And if you don’t come clean to Professor Hayes first thing tomorrow morning, I will.”
Panic surges through me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under. My mind races, searching for a way out, for a solution that doesn’t end with my life in ruins.
