The Heir's Game

CHAPTER 002

ISLA POV

It all happened in a flash; by morning, a black Maybach was waiting to pick me up. We arrived at the airport and I boarded the plane. I couldn't contain my shock when I realized I was holding a first-class ticket.

The flight lasted for only two hours, and when we touched down at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, there was a man in corporate black holding out a sign with my name on it.

He led me to a private car, and took me along the coast, through winding roads, until we reached Monaco. The sea was breathtaking, shimmering like oil-painted glass, the road, the trees, and the buildings. I focused my eyes on everything. I was starting to get a little comfortable with all of this, but I knew better than to forget about the dangers as well.

The ride continued until we nestled into a mountainside, overlooking the Riviera, was an estate. The car only pulled to a halt when we arrived at a mansion with a waterfall in the center. My mouth remained open as I gawked around, mesmerized by the sight of pure luxury.

I had only seen buildings like this in movies and my imagination. And here I was, standing and gawking at the towering and intimidating work of art.

“Welcome, Miss Verrone.” I heard a voice that sounded female and polished, snapping me back to reality.

A middle-aged woman was standing right in front of me, also cooperatively dressed. She looked sharp and smart, her facial expression Stoic. I could feel her aura from where I stood; she looked like someone who ran things around here.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“I am Patricia, your guide, please follow me.” She said and turned without any further ado. I turned to get my luggage, but the chauffeur was already walking away with it.

I held my tote bag close to my shoulder, following behind them. Patricia led me into the grand foyer, and I didn't have the right words to do justice to the interior of this mansion. Gold, silver, diamonds. Every spot I turned, they glared at me. Even the steps were made out of gold. We stopped in the first hallway and Patricia opened up the door.

“This is your room, Miss Verrone.” She gestured for me to come in and I did. My luggage was already there, and I was standing in a room larger than my entire flat. The bed was large and comfy-looking, calling out to me from where I stood.

“The servants are at your beck and call, all you have to do is ring the bell.” Patricia pointed to the bell string close to my bed.

“Your bath has already been made, have a shower, everything you need for the meeting with Mr. Partout is in the walk-in closet.”

Patricia glanced at the watch on her wrist, and then back at me, her expression remaining the same. “The meeting will start at 7PM. I will be back by then to take you there.”

Like a robot, she turned and walked out of my supposed room.

“Mr. Partout.” The collector. The man who paid me more in one night than I had earned in two years.

I had my bath in the rose-scented bubble bath that was made for me, I had a rinse in the shower, and stepped out in a robe. I went into the walk-in closet and changed into the attire that was picked out for me. There was a tag on the dress, a black silk blouse, tailored slacks, and a pair of heels that I had never imagined coming across.

The message was clear and at the same time eerie. I was to play my role and wear the costume.

*************

By 7PM, Patricia had returned, not a minute early or late. It made me wonder if she was human or an assigned AI robot.

I followed her, and she led me to an entirely different building in the estate. It was a gallery, large in structure. When the car pulled to a halt, my skin crawled beneath my calm exterior. It was terrifying to think we were the only ones parked outside. Patricia led me into a stone corridor lined with shadowed artwork. We arrived in a large hall, and then I saw him.

Mr.Partout.

He stood at the far end of the hall, backing me as he stared at a painting on the wall. There was something about his posture. He looked relaxed, but watchful, and it made my pulse quicken.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. He didn’t turn to face me right away.

“You are late,” he said instead, his voice low and smooth. French, but softened by years elsewhere.

“I apologize,” I replied, matching his neutrality.

He turned, and I bit my cheek, *Luca Moreaux. Luca Moreaux is Mr. Partout.* I couldn't believe my eyes. What game was Fate trying to play?

And the moment our eyes met, I knew one thing with absolute certainty. This was going to get messy.

Luca’s eyes were a shade I had only ever seen in oil paintings: gray, sharp, and rimmed. He had a really defined face,and a unique kind of beauty.

He smiled, barely. I wouldn't even call that a smile. “So. The expert arrives.”

“And the client remains cryptic,” I answered.

A flash of amusement flickered over his mouth. “You are sharper than I expected.”

“I am not here to meet expectations,” I said. “Only to verify the truth.”

“Truth,” he echoed, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. “That’s such a rare currency these days, don’t you think?” He stopped a few feet away, eyes searching for mine.

“Do you know why I brought you here?”

I resisted the urge to cross my arms. “You want your collection authenticated. Quietly. And I imagine discreetness is more important than accuracy.”

A beat passed. Then he motioned to the nearest wall. “Start there.”

This gallery was like a private museum in itself; it had paintings of Picasso, Modigliani, Klimt, and others. I doubted even the Louvre had access to. Some of it could be real. Most likely wasn’t.

But something was off. Too perfect, too curated. Like every piece was placed not for beauty, but for a message. I reached the third canvas, an unsigned painting of Goya. I paused, my eyes narrowing.

It wasn’t the paint. It was the canvas.“Someone altered this,” I murmured. “The signature’s not missing, it was erased.”

Luca watched me like a hawk. “And the motive?”

“Probably to sell it at a different time. Earlier, Goyas fetched higher prices in off-market circles.”

His eyes glinted. “You are better than the last two.”

I turned. “There were others?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to a side table, poured two glasses of something amber, and handed one to me. I took it, but didn’t drink and he noticed

.

“Cautious.”

“I have read about you,” I said, my voice even.

He raised a brow, but said nothing, which made me continue.

“Luca Moreaux. Multi-sector businessman. Billion-dollar estate. Whispered connections to missing art, and buried investigations.”

“Hmmm.” He simply sighed. “Impressive.” He added. He smiled again, “I didn’t bring you here just to look at paintings, Miss Verrone.”

I stiffened. “Then why?”

He stepped closer. Just enough to break the safe space between us.

“I have a leak in my circle,” he said. “Someone I trust has been feeding information to an enemy. I need eyes that see what others can’t. You look at the details. You live in truth. That’s what I need now.”

I stared at him.

He was asking me to be more than an expert. He was asking me to be a spy.