The Heir's Game

ISLA POV “I am sorry, Miss Isla, but it's time we pronounced her dead…” “No. She's not dead, she can't be dead, please you can't give up on her like this.” “I am sorry, but we have gone beyond our best.” *Gone beyond their best…* I scoffed at the memory, rubbing my arms to ease out the cold. I sat by the stained-glass window, resting my head on its surface, hoping I could feel her presence, even if it was a little. This was her favorite spot in the gallery. She drew her inspirations from here, telling us about the peace it gave her. She told my sister and me stories in this spot, made us dream and wish for a life like hers. I wasn't sure about Hannah, but I have craved to be like my mother ever since I was a little girl. I wasn't a blessed and skilled painter like she was, but through her, I understood what real art was, the ability to see perfection just by touch. I studied and trained, and together we made big and beautiful dreams for the gallery, but Fate had other plans. Taking a deep breath, I listened to the sound of the raindrops hitting the ground. I was cold, no surprise there. London always felt cold in November, but tonight, it was familiar. It seeped into my skin and settled right in my bones, just like the night she disappeared. She had looked at my sister and me with that loving gaze. If only I had known the pain behind those eyes, I would have stopped her or insisted on coming. Five years passed, and still no sign of her. The police had given up, Hannah had finally accepted her absence, but I? I couldn't. She was my life, my inspiration, my motivation, my role model; she was everything to me and a lot more. I tightened my grip on the wool shawl around my shoulders, slowly leaning away from the window, I walked over to the canvas that brought me into this room in particular. Mom was gone. The only way I could keep this place running was by developing my career right here in her gallery, as an art authenticator. I stopped before the painting, staring at it through the dim lights. It looked like a possible Monet, though my gut whispered otherwise. The artist was talented, making his brushwork look so convincing, but the aging was wrong. It was like someone had tried a little too hard to recreate a masterpiece of history in painting, but failed woefully. I sighed and glanced at the clock. It was 8:03 PM, and my dinner still sat untouched on the table. Beef stew, bread, and a cup of coffee. The electricity in the back office had gone out again, but I couldn’t afford to care. The sharp sound of the buzzer cut through my thoughts, and I froze, my heart skipping a beat. No one visited this late, especially not here in the gallery. We barely had visitors in the last five years, and they sure never stopped by at night. I headed to the front in my worn-out socks, flicking on the overhead light that always took too long to warm up. I pulled the door open, and there was a man in a black coat, wearing a long black hat, holding an envelope and wearing a solemn expression like he had better places to be. “For Miss Verrone,” he said, holding it out. I slowly took the envelope from him, glaring at it. There was no return address, it was just plain, black, thick, and sealed with red wax like something out of a gothic movie. “Who sent this?” I asked, raising my head, but the man was already gone, like the wind. “Well, that was some strange encounter,” I whispered and stepped back in, closing the door. I locked it out of instinct. I turned the envelope in my hands. My name was written in calligraphy, nothing else. No title, no gallery. I cracked the seal and took out the paper inside. It was a letter, directed to me. “Miss Isla Verrone, your expertise has been requested for private authentication and valuation. The collector values discretion and speed. Full payment will be deposited upon arrival.” I read, slowly settling on a nearby stool. “A car will collect you tomorrow morning and take you to the airport. Your plane ticket has been booked. The location is Monaco. Associates will be at the airport upon your arrival. The first deposit has been made, and is non-refundable. We look forward to seeing you.” I stared down at the edge of the paper, “Yours sincerely…” but there was no name. I blinked, my heart beating fast, and this wasn't from excitement, but from confusion and fear. I checked the envelope again and there was a flight ticket booked for Monaco, by 9AM. “This had to be a joke, someone is playing tricks on me,” I whispered, pulling out my phone. I opened my banking app, and my jaw dropped. A hundred thousand pounds, just lying around in my account. This wasn't a dream, it was real. This was a lot more than my annual income as an art authenticator, and for a trip to Monaco? Duration wasn't even stated in the letter. “Oh God!” I gasped as my fingers trembled. I set the card down, trying to calm myself down so I could think. The logical part of my brain screamed scam, set up, danger. But the other part, the desperate, weary, overworked part, was already thinking of Hannah. My sister, whose scholarship had been denied again just yesterday. Who was still hoping I would “figure something out” like I always did. This could be it. The lifeline I needed, even though it didn’t feel like one, but a trap. I looked around the small gallery, where the few masterpieces my mother had made during her years as a talented artist ,hung on the cracked walls of the building. My tiny office sat in the corner, filled with tax requests and other paperwork. My rent was overdue, and the gallery was on the verge of shutting down. And now this. An invitation that could go two ways, probably leading to my disappearance, just like my mother. Staring at the letter, I should remain nonchalant and refuse whatever they have offered me. Instead, I found myself packing up a few of my essentials which I had brought to the gallery months back. Thankfully, I had my one black dress, which could pass for something luxurious if worn right. As I packed up my luggage, I took out my phone and sent Hannah a short text. * I am leaving for work in Monaco. I will be back before you know it. Tell Aunt Stacy I said Hi.* My stomach twisted as the text was delivered. I didn't want her bothering me with any questions, so I turned off my phone. Something wasn’t right. I felt it in my gut, the same way I could feel forged paint beneath my fingertips. But the money was real, and I didn't have any options.