T-MINUS 1 DAY.
This will be where I die.
In the sacred, never-before-seen art gallery no one was ever allowed to enter. Splayed across the lifeless epoxy floor. Surrounded by priceless art. Blood splatters camouflaged by the creepy black-and-red Jackson Pollock.
At the very least, I couldn’t find a single alternate explanation for why Zachary Sun had sent me down to his creepy subterranean garage.
Over the weeks, I’d cataloged every item Romeo and Oliver brought to my studio. Nothing went missing, and I didn’t own anything else.
No way did he just want me here to show me all the things I’d never own.
I crept out of the elevator, half-expecting something to jump out at me. The electronic key spat back out from a slot on the other side, eliciting a startled yelp from me.
“Welcome, Miss Ballantine.”
And another yelp, courtesy of the robotic AI voice at the entrance.
Two glass double doors slid open, inviting me into the main space. If this were the night of his bridal hunt, no way could I ever have broken into this fortress.
Projectors lit up white arrows on the floor. They led to the furthest end of the gallery. So deep, I couldn’t even make out anything beyond a blur.
“Please, follow the guided path.”
I stepped on an arrow, keeping my feet directly on the column, as if it were a wooden plank on a rope bridge. One wrong step and vamoosh.
The thought of swerving out of line and breaking a five-million-dollar masterpiece pricked the back of my mind as I strolled past statues, paintings, divots, and corridors, too focused on my steps to soak it all in.
Once I reached the last arrow, I dared to glance up. Dozens of boxes, tubes, and racks scattered across the otherwise empty section of the gallery.
“Please, collect your belongings, Miss Ballantine.”
I pointed to myself, feeling fifty shades of ridiculous. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I hadn’t expected an answer. Nor had I planned for this, for that matter. In fact, I’d need a moving truck and a crew to get all of this out.
Still, curiosity got the better of me. I fingered a random suede box, tugging off the lid.
My knees gave out a little.
Something golden swam in a sea of red satin.
No way.
I snatched it in an instant, reeling it closer to admire. “Dad’s pinky ring.”
A pure gold behemoth.
Naturally, Vera had auctioned it off with the first batch of his valuables two years ago.
I slid it onto my thumb. Still loose, but I decided to wear it at all costs.
The robotic voice interrupted the moment. “Mr. Sun repatriated Mr. Ballantine’s belongings.”
That spurred me into action.
I raced to the art rack. Dad’s replica paintings took up thirty or so rows, sorted alphabetically. Even Da Vinci’s Salvator Mundi. Slotted in a gallery-grade sorting rack as if the replica deserved as much care as Zach’s billion-dollar collection.
Zachary Sun had managed to collect every item Vera ever sold off. The Rolex, the gems, the antique china.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
It must have taken so much time and effort.
When did he start planning this?
Why did he start planning this?
I couldn’t wipe the goofy grin from my lips even if I tried. I didn’t want to. To think I’d spent the past thirty days so scared of that damn key.
Such a coward, Fae. You should’ve known better. The best gifts are wrapped in the way you least expect.
I tipped my head back, scanning the corners of the room until I spotted a camera.
A flashing red light blinked at me.
I waved back. “Thank you, Zach. Truly.”
Then, I ran to another box, popping the lid off with a giddy bounce.
A mosaic sculpture of two lovebirds that used to occupy the nightstand beside Dad and Vera’s bed. He’d obsessed over this piece during their fourth honeymoon in Venice.
This one came with a letter from the reseller. I slid the heavy card stock out of the envelope.
Mr. Sun,
I do not appreciate being threatened to fork over what amounts to a penny in your wealth of art.
In the future, should you wish to pilfer my far more modest collection, I suggest a polite exchange.
Regards,
William St. Eve
P.S. Did you gain such an expansive collection by threatening every collector on the globe?
Kamran Izadi recently informed me that you commandeered a Lobster Telephone replica from his home, as well.
I squealed, heels squeaking across the garage as I raced from box to box, trying to find it.
When I finally unearthed the lobster, I brought it to my chest, twirling in circles. “I always wanted it for my own room.”
“Did you say something, Miss Ballantine?”
I ignored the robot voice, a lone stand catching my eye. A hand-carved box I didn’t recognize sat on top of it. Heart in my throat, I popped the lid off, gasping at its contents.
The pendant.
There, in all its glory.
With its lush green tassel and hand-carved lion.
I pushed my hair from my face, squinting to make sure I saw it right. It really was here. Down to the crooked trimmed tassel, courtesy of yours truly.
I brought the pendant to my lips, sealing it with a kiss. My eyes caught on a hand-written note, wedged in the roof of the box.
I’m a greedy bastard, Farrow Ballantine.
That you’re enough for me says it all.
— Z
