The study is dimly lit, the only light coming from the golden glow of the desk lamp. Emmanuel Dennis, sits behind an antique oak desk, his sharp jaw clenched, dark eyes fixed on the tablet screen in front of him.
He replays the surveillance footage again. This time, slower.
There she is—Claudia Bernard , his fiancée by arrangement, in her usual heels and ice-cold elegance, standing in the middle of the gallery event earlier that evening.
Claudia is smiling, but her words are venomous. The audio is faint, but clear enough.
CLAUDIA (on screen)**
“I don’t care whose daughter you are. If you can’t tell a Monet from a Modigliani, you don’t belong here.”
Emmanuel freezes the frame. The young woman on the receiving end of Claudia’s sharp tongue looks pale, humiliated—her lips parted like
