Read Chapter 32: The Apex

The auction room at Drouot was never meant to hold this much heat. Claire stood at the back, arms crossed, watching the auctioneer’s gavel hover over Julien Perrault’s *Elodie in Morning Light*. The painting—her grandmother’s true face, finally freed from a storage vault and decades of lies—glowed under the spotlights. Bidding had climbed past three hundred thousand euros.

Marc slipped in beside her, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers. “Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t argue. He just took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and held on.

The auctioneer’s voice rang out. “Going once. Going twice.” The gavel cracked. “Sold.”

The room erupted. Claire let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The buyer was a private collector from Geneva—one of the names who’d called her firm in the past month, drawn by her story. She’d made them sign agreements: the painting would travel for exhibitions, never vanish into a private vault. And every cent of the proceeds was already earmarked for the Foundation for Asylum Survivors, a charity Claire had helped establish with the last of the Verger estate settlement.

“You did it,” Marc said.

“We did it.” She turned to face him, and the noise of the room faded. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

His eyes searched hers. “Claire, I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For weeks now. But I didn’t want to complicate things while you were still untangling your family’s mess.”

“What is it?”

He stepped closer, and the auction room disappeared entirely. “I’m not just here for the legal support. I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you. About us. And I know this is terrible timing, but I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Claire laughed—a small, startled sound. “Terrible timing is kind of our thing.”

“So what are you saying?”

She reached up, cupping his face. “I’m saying I’ve been waiting for you to say that since the night you broke into my studio with a gunshot wound.”

He winced. “That wasn’t my finest moment.”

“It was very you.” She pulled him down and kissed him. It was soft at first, then deeper, full of everything they hadn’t said. When she pulled back, the auction hall was loudly, rudely applauding again—but this time, Claire didn’t care whether it was for her or for them.

---

The interview was scheduled for the next morning, in the firm’s Paris office. Claire sat across from a journalist from *Le Monde*, a sharp-eyed woman named Amélie who’d spent years covering art crimes.

“So,” Amélie said, adjusting her recorder, “you’re claiming that the Verger family—one of the most respected dynasties in French banking—systematically destroyed the career and freedom of your grandmother, Elodie Duval, for over forty years.”

“I’m not claiming it,” Claire said. “I’m stating it. I have the asylum records, the deposit box letters, and a signed confession from Laurent Verger himself.”

“And your father’s role in all this?”

Claire paused. She’d rehearsed this answer. It still hurt. “My father was complicit in hiding the truth. He was manipulated, and he made choices he’s not proud of. But he was also trying to protect me, in his own broken way. That doesn’t excuse it. It just means the story is more complicated than one villain.”

“The imposter in Grenoble?”

“An actress hired by my father, paid for by funds laundered through the Verger estate. She was part of the protection scheme—a lie meant to keep me from digging deeper.” Claire shook her head. “It backfired. The truth always has a way of surfacing.”

Amélie leaned forward. “And the original hidden portrait? The first one you found, under the surface of *Portrait of a Lady*?”

Claire’s jaw tightened. “Still missing. Laurent denies knowing where it went after he stole it from my studio. We have witnesses, but no physical evidence.”

“So there’s a piece of your grandmother’s legacy out there somewhere. A piece of her that’s lost.”

“Yes.” Claire met the journalist’s eyes. “But I will find it. Even if it takes the rest of my life, I’ll find it.”

Marc, sitting just off-camera, squeezed her shoulder.

---

That evening, Claire sat in her apartment, the letter from Elodie spread across the table beside Julien’s painting of her—the 1968 original she’d retrieved from the deposit box. Marc had finally left an hour ago, after she’d made him promise not to spend the night fretting about press coverage.

Her phone buzzed. A news alert.

She read the headline and smiled—a full, tired, genuine smile. The coverage was already running. Elodie’s face, painted in golden light by the man who’d loved her, was splashed across French media. Fundraising for the foundation had tripled in the past six hours.

Her phone buzzed again. Then again. Then her laptop pinged.

She glanced at the screen. A news site had published the interview with a different angle: *“The Hidden Portrait: Still Missing—A Story Incomplete.”*

Claire read the article. It was fair. Respectful. But the last paragraph stopped her cold:

*Despite the revelations, the original hidden portrait—the painting that started it all—remains unaccounted for. Sources close to the investigation suggest it may have left the country years ago. Until it surfaces, one piece of Elodie Duval’s legacy remains buried.*

Claire set her phone down. She looked at Julien’s painting of her grandmother, her eyes bright and alive. Somewhere out there, the first portrait was waiting. Waiting to be seen again.

She would find it.

She had to.