Read Chapter 14: The Collector's Party

The library doors opened onto a scene of liquid gold. Champagne flutes caught the light of a dozen crystal chandeliers, their sparkle multiplying across mirrored walls and the polished marble floor. Somewhere a string quartet fought a losing battle against the roar of Parisian wealth at play.

Camille had chosen her armor carefully—a deep emerald gown that skimmed her shoulders and left her back bare, the color dark enough to vanish into shadow, cut elegant enough to belong. Her borrowed diamonds—courtesy of a jeweler who owed the firm a favor—caught the light as she moved, marking her as one of them.

She spotted Legrand near a towering arrangement of white orchids, his silver hair immaculate, a glass of Burgundy held with practiced ease. He was laughing at something a woman in sapphires had said, but his eyes tracked the room with the precision of a man who missed nothing.

*Professional. Guarded.* She’d need to be better.

Camille accepted a flute from a passing tray and drifted toward the terrace doors, letting him see her before she made him come to her. A woman of means didn’t chase. She waited.

He took the bait.

“Madame Vasseur.” His voice arrived before he did, smooth as the silk of his tie. “I was hoping you’d accept my invitation.”

She turned, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Monsieur Legrand. Your library was impressive. I’m curious to see what else you keep hidden.”

Something flickered across his face—amusement, or assessment. “A woman who appreciates discretion. How refreshing.”

“Discretion is a currency, Monsieur. I’ve found it buys more than money.”

He tilted his head, considering her. “And what does it buy you tonight?”

“A piece I’ve been hunting for years.” She let her gaze drop to his glass, then rise to meet his again. “I was told you might have something… singular.”

Legrand’s smile thinned. “People tell you many things, Madame. The question is whether they’re true.” He gestured toward a quieter corner near a gilded harp, where the noise of the party receded to a murmur. “Shall we?”

Camille followed, cataloging exits, faces, the position of the security staff. Her pulse ticked higher when she noticed the guard standing near the terrace doors—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with a scar through his left eyebrow that she knew as well as her own reflection.

*Julien Moreau.*

Her brother.

He hadn’t seen her yet. His gaze swept the room with professional detachment, scanning guests, windows, points of entry. He looked harder than she remembered. Leaner. The boy who’d taught her to climb drainpipes in their childhood Montmartre flat had become a man with a soldier’s bearing and nothing soft left in his face.

*What are you doing here?*

Eight years since she’d walked away from the family debt and the shame that came with it. Eight years since she’d told Julien she couldn’t be the person he needed her to be, and he’d told her she was running from more than the collectors—she was running from them. She hadn’t corrected him. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t said goodbye.

And now he was standing ten meters from her, guarding the man she was trying to con.

Camille forced her attention back to Legrand, who had stopped beside a small Renaissance table bearing an ornate silver triptych. “You mentioned the Fragonard,” he said, voice low. “I confess, it’s not often I meet a collector who knows that particular piece.”

“My husband—” she let the word catch, just slightly, like an old grief, “—spoke of it often. He had a passion for Fragonard’s later works. The ones he painted for himself, not for the court.” She met Legrand’s eyes. “I wish to finish what he started.”

Legrand’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. Almost. She caught the flicker of calculation behind it. “You have my condolences.” He paused. “And my interest. The piece in question is exceptional. Its provenance, however—” He spread his hands. “You understand there are complications.”

“Complications have solutions, Monsieur. I represent a family that has navigated far more delicate waters than a question of paperwork.” She let her gaze sharpen. “But I don’t buy art on faith. I need to see the provenance file myself. Before any discussion of price.”

Legrand’s smile turned careful. “The file is… sensitive. I protect my sources the way a banker protects his vault.”

“Then we have a problem.” She made to move past him, toward the party. “I don’t do business blind.”

His hand caught her elbow—light, but insistent. “Madame Vasseur. Please.” He released her quickly, aware of the optics. But she’d felt the steel beneath the polish. “I acquired the piece under circumstances that require… discretion. You understand the market. If word got out—”

“It won’t.” She met his gaze, unblinking. “From my side. But I can’t offer half a million euros on the strength of your reputation alone.” She watched his pupils dilate at the figure. *Bait on the hook.* “The file, Monsieur. Or I find another broker.”

Legrand studied her for a long moment. The string quartet had shifted into a waltz; couples were moving toward the dance floor, laughing, weightless. Camille held her ground, letting the silence stretch, letting him wonder whether she’d really walk.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally. “My gallery in the Marais. Ten in the morning.” He produced a card from his breast pocket—plain cream, embossed with a single address. “I’ll have the file available for your review. And the piece.” His smile returned, tighter now. “I think you’ll find it worth the journey.”

Camille took the card, letting her fingers brush his. “I look forward to it.”

She turned and moved back into the crowd, her heart hammering a steady rhythm beneath the emerald silk. The card was warm in her palm. Now she just needed to survive the next twelve hours without her brother recognizing her—or worse, Legrand deciding she was worth investigating.

She angled toward the terrace, intending to slip out through the garden and call Étienne—

“Camille?”

Her blood stopped.

*Julien.* The voice was older, rougher, but unmistakable. She kept walking.

“Camille, wait.” His hand closed on her bare shoulder, and she had no choice but to turn.

He looked the same in the worst ways. Same dark hair she’d tugged as a child. Same scar from the fight he’d lost defending her honor in the 9th. Same eyes that had once held nothing but warmth and had slowly, over years, gone hard. He was staring at her like she was a ghost.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, urgent. “This house—these people—you have no idea what you’ve walked into.”

“I’m just a guest, Julien. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t.” The word was sharp. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve spent my whole life knowing when you were lying.” He glanced past her, toward Legrand, who was watching them with sharpened interest. “Whatever he’s promised you—it’s a trap. This whole operation is a trap.”

“What operation?” She kept her voice steady, even as her mind raced. Julien worked security for Delacroix—which meant he had access, and knowledge. Which meant he was another variable in a game she was already losing.

His jaw tightened. “Meet me. Tomorrow, before you do anything stupid.” He pressed a slip of paper into her palm, folded around the card. “The café on Rue des Rosiers. Seven in the morning. Don’t bring anyone.”

“Julien, I can’t—”

“You can.” His eyes held hers with an intensity that stripped eight years. “You just won’t.” He released her, stepping back into his professional mask. “Enjoy the evening, Madame.” Louder, for the room. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He was gone before she could answer, swallowed by the crowd. Camille stood frozen, the paper burning in her hand. Her brother, working for the man who allegedly sponsored a forgery ring that was killing people. Her brother, who knew her well enough to know she was lying.

She looked down at the folded paper, opened it—a phone number in his familiar cramped hand, and one word beneath it.

*Delacroix.*

Not the collector. The hunter.

Camille slipped the paper into her clutch and moved toward the door, Legrand’s eyes following her all the way out.