CHAPTER ONE: The Things I Don’t Fix
(Amara Pov)
I’ve always liked broken things.
Not in a tragic, poetic way. Not because I think everything deserves saving.
Just because broken things don’t lie.
They don’t pretend to be whole. They don’t hide what’s wrong with them. The cracks are right there—visible, honest, impossible to ignore.
People aren’t like that.
People smile. They say things they don’t mean. They bury the truth so deep you start to question if it was ever real.
But art?
Art remembers.
And that’s why I chose this life.
“Amara.”
I don’t look up immediately. The brush in my hand is too steady, the line too delicate to interrupt. One wrong move and I’ll have to start over, and I don’t have the patience for that today.
“Amara,” the voice repeats, a little closer this time.
I sigh under my breath, finishing the stroke before finally setting the brush down. “If this is about lunch, I’m not hungry.”
“It’s not about lunch.”
That gets my attention.
I glance over my shoulder to see Ethan leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s been trying to solve for years.
Which, to be fair, he probably has.
“What is it, then?” I ask, pulling off one glove and flexing my fingers.
He doesn’t answer right away. That’s never a good sign.
Instead, he walks into the studio, slow and deliberate, like he’s stepping into something fragile. His eyes move over the space—paintings in various states of restoration, tools laid out in careful order, the faint smell of varnish and chemicals hanging in the air.
“This place always smells the same,” he says.
“That’s because nothing changes,” I reply.
His gaze shifts to me again. “That’s not true.”
I ignore that.
“What do you want, Ethan?”
He exhales, reaching into the folder tucked under his arm. “You got a request.”
I raise a brow. “I always get requests.”
“Not like this one.”
That makes me pause.
He holds out the folder, and I take it slowly, wiping my hands on a cloth before opening it. Inside are photographs—high-quality prints of paintings, sculptures, artifacts.
Expensive ones.
Very expensive.
“Private collection,” he says. “Invitation-only access. They specifically asked for you.”
I flip through the images, my eyes scanning automatically—composition, damage, age, authenticity. Whoever owns this collection isn’t just wealthy.
They’re powerful.
“How private?” I ask.
Ethan hesitates. Just for a second.
“Off-record,” he says finally. “No public documentation. No press. No digital trail.”
I look up at him sharply. “That’s not standard.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I say yes?”
“Because they’re paying triple your usual rate.”
I snort softly, closing the folder. “You know money isn’t what convinces me.”
“I know,” he says again. “That’s why I didn’t lead with that.”
There’s something else in his tone now. Something I don’t like.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly debating how much to say. “The collection has… history.”
“All collections have history.”
“Not like this.”
Silence settles between us.
I tilt my head slightly. “Define ‘not like this.’”
Ethan meets my gaze. “Some of the pieces might be tied to… things that weren’t exactly legal.”
I stare at him.
Then I laugh.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s not my problem,” I say, handing the folder back. “I restore art. I don’t investigate where rich people get their toys.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “But this might be different.”
Something in my chest tightens, just slightly.
I hate that feeling.
“I’m not interested,” I say, turning back to my work.
“Amara…”
“No.”
My tone is firm now. Final.
I pick up my brush again, dipping it carefully into solvent, focusing on the painting in front of me. The red streak I noticed earlier seems darker now, more pronounced.
Like it’s waiting for me.
“I thought you’d at least look into it,” Ethan says behind me.
“I did,” I said. “I’m declining.”
“Without asking who it belongs to?”
My hand stills.
Slowly, I turn my head.
“What did you say?”
Ethan watches me carefully. “You didn’t ask.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who does it belong to?”
He hesitates again.
Then..
“That’s the thing,” he says. “They didn’t say.”
A cold feeling slips down my spine.
“No name?” I ask.
“None.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
I stare at him for a long moment, my mind already moving, already connecting things I don’t want to connect.
No name. Off-record. Illegal history.
Something about this is wrong.
Very wrong.
“I’m still not taking it,” I say, turning back to the canvas.
But now my focus is gone.
The brush feels heavier in my hand. The room feels quieter.
Like it’s waiting.
Ethan didn’t leave right away.
“You’ve been looking for something, Amara,” he says after a moment.
My grip tightens.
“Don’t,” I'm warning you.”
“I’m just saying…”
“I said don’t.
Silence again.
Then…
“What if this is connected?”
My heart stops.
Just for a second.
Then it starts again, faster this time.
“You don’t know that,” I say, my voice steady in a way that feels forced.
“I don’t,” he admits. “But you don’t know that it isn’t either.”
I close my eyes briefly.
I hate this.
I hate that he said it. I hate that part of me is already considering it.
Because he’s right.
I don’t know.
And not knowing has always been the worst part.
Three years.
Three years of unanswered questions. Of reports that didn’t make sense. Of conclusions that felt too clean, too convenient.
“Accident,” they called it.
I’ve never believed that.
Not for a second.
I open my eyes again, staring at the painting in front of me. At the red streak that doesn’t belong.
At the thing that’s hidden beneath the surface.
“What’s the deadline?” I ask quietly.
Ethan doesn’t respond immediately.
Then I hear the shift in his voice, the subtle change that tells me he’s trying not to sound relieved.
“They want an answer by tomorrow.”
I nod once.
Slow.
Deliberate.
“Leave the file,” I say.
And this time, I didn't tell him no.
