Read Chapter 38: The Last Hurdle

The auction house’s marble lobby had never felt like a cage before, but it did now.

Camille stood at the center of the security office’s glass-walled observation deck, her heels silent on the polished floor. The thief from the gala sat three floors below in an interrogation room, his glare fixed on the one-way mirror. She had identified him within seconds—the tattoo curling from his wrist like a question mark, the same mark she’d once seen in a photograph Victor had burned. She’d expected answers. Instead, she’d gotten an empty hotel room and a note that said only: *Don’t follow me.*

Now Henri stood beside her, arms crossed, watching the thief through the glass. “You’re sure about the mark.”

“Positive.”

“Then we have a problem.” Henri turned, pulling a tablet from his jacket. “Because this man doesn’t exist. Not in Interpol’s database. Not in Monaco’s. Not anywhere.”

Camille looked at the screen. Empty fields, a placeholder photo. “Someone erased him.”

“Someone built him.” Henri’s jaw tightened. “He’s a plant, Camille. A test.”

The door to the observation deck opened before she could respond. A man in a charcoal suit entered—Thierry Marchand, the auction house’s head of security. She knew him by reputation: meticulous, quiet, the kind of man who noticed everything and said almost nothing. Behind him walked a woman with cropped gray hair and a tablet pressed to her chest—something about the way she moved suggested muscle under the blazer.

“Ms. Laurent,” Marchand said, closing the door with a soft click. “Thank you for your swift identification of the intruder.”

“It was easy.” Camille kept her voice level. “He tried to lift the necklace from a gala I was hired to protect. Trained eyes catch trained hands.”

Marchand’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “And yet, the necklace never left its case. The theft attempt was clumsy at best. Deliberately so, in fact.”

A cold weight settled in Camille’s stomach. “Deliberate.”

“Our security team orchestrated the entire event.” Marchand stepped past her to the glass, nodding down at the thief. “Étienne is one of ours. A professional we hire to test vulnerabilities in high-value venues. Tonight’s assignment was simple: attempt a theft in full view of our newest consultant and measure her response.”

The words landed like a blow. Camille’s hands went still at her sides. “You staged it.”

“We needed to know who was leaking.”

“Leaking what?” Henri’s voice sharpened. “The necklace had already been recovered. The case was closed.”

Marchand turned, his eyes flat as winter. “Was it?”

He gestured to the woman with gray hair, who tapped her tablet and brought up a file—internal auction house communications, flagged and highlighted. Dates. Times. Mentions of the necklace’s movement schedules, vault rotations, security checkpoints. All signed with a name: Camille Laurent.

“These were sent from your auction house credentials, Ms. Laurent,” Marchand said. “Twenty-six messages over the past three weeks. Each one containing tactical information only internal staff would know. The gala was bait. The thief was the hook. And you—well, you took the bait beautifully.”

Camille stepped forward, heat rising in her chest. “I never sent those. I don’t have access to those systems. I was cleared by Interpol—Henri can vouch for that.”

“Interpol cleared you of theft,” Marchand said, his voice quiet but relentless. “They did not clear you of espionage. And the public announcement naming you as our chief curator candidate gives you motive. The leak has compromised three upcoming auctions. Insurance premiums have tripled. Someone is profiting from the instability, and the trail leads directly to you.”

Henri moved between them. “This is absurd. Camille was with me when most of these messages were sent. I can provide timesheets, eyewitness accounts, system logs from Interpol’s side.”

“I’m sure you can. You’ve proven loyal to her before.” Marchand’s gaze flicked to Camille, then back to Henri. “But loyalty isn’t evidence. And the board is due to make a final decision on her appointment tomorrow morning.”

The word *tomorrow* hung in the air like a verdict.

Camille’s mind raced. The messages. The staged theft. The tattoo that didn’t exist in any database but matched a mark from Victor’s burned file. The watcher in the gray Peugeot. The insurance premiums climbing. It wasn’t random. It was a pattern, and the pattern was pointing at her.

But who was drawing the lines?

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A single message, from a number she didn’t recognize.

*Ask him about the escrow.*

Her breath caught. She looked up at Marchand, who was already turning toward the door, the woman with gray hair following like a shadow.

“Mr. Marchand.” Camille’s voice cut through the silence. “Who is the private collector scheduled to take possession of the blue diamond next month?”

Marchand paused, his hand on the door handle. “That information is confidential.”

“So is my file,” Camille said. “And yet you seem to have all the details. So let me ask you differently.” She stepped toward him, closing the distance. “Who benefits more from my removal—the auction house, or the one buyer who’s been waiting years for a diamond that keeps being delayed by security breaches?”

Marchand’s jaw tightened. A tell. Small, but she caught it.

“Your appointment isn’t the only thing on tomorrow’s agenda,” he said. “The board will also be reviewing our insurance provider’s recommendations. They’ve proposed a forty percent increase in premiums due to operational risk. Your presence at this house is the primary factor in that risk assessment.”

“Who proposed it?” Henri pressed. “Who flagged the breaches in the first place?”

The woman with gray hair shifted, uncomfortable. Marchand held Camille’s gaze for a long moment, then said, “The CEO made the recommendation personally.”

A beat of silence.

Camille saw it then, the whole shape of the thing—the manufactured fear, the staged theft, the framed consultant, the rising premiums. Not a criminal plot against the auction house. A financial one *by* it. And the one man who knew the truth of Victor’s old file, who could tie the tattoo to the network behind it all, had slipped away when she needed him most.

She turned to Henri. “Find him.”

“Victor?”

“He’s the only one who knows what that tattoo means.” Camille’s voice was quiet but steely. “And if he’s run, it’s because he found out who the thief really works for.”

Marchand’s mouth opened, but she cut him off.

“You tested me,” she said. “Fine. Now I’m testing you.” She held up her phone. “Because whoever sent this message knows about the escrow transfer, and there are only four people in the world who know that number. I’m one of them. Victor is another. And the other two are sitting in this room.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else.

Marchand blinked, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. The woman beside him shifted, reaching for her tablet.

Camille didn’t move.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll present my evidence directly to the board. And I’ll do it with Victor at my side—because he’s the only partner I trust to tear this house apart until the truth comes out.”