THE THINGS WE KEEP
2655 Words
CHAPTER TWO
ALASTOR
I bought another painting today.
Georgios didn't comment.
He rarely questioned my decisions anymore.
Instead, he accepted the auction catalogue from my hand as my armored sedan rolled silently to a stop beneath the museum's grand entrance.
Years ago, Maverick had insisted on replacing every vehicle in my convoy.
After the third assassination attempt...
I'd stopped arguing.
“Your paddle, Young Master.”
I took the polished wooden paddle without looking at the number engraved on its face.
Seven.
The same number they assigned me every year.
Outside, photographers waited behind velvet ropes, flashes already bursting against polished black cars as guests arrived beneath banners announcing tonight's charity auction.
The Laurent Foundation Gala.
Supporting housing for widows and the elderly.
A worthy cause.
One I preferred to support anonymously.
“Unfortunately,” Georgios said as Maverick stepped out to open my door, “they've insisted on acknowledging your contribution this evening.”
“I declined.”
“They're hoping you'll change your mind.”
“I won't.”
His mouth twitched ever so slightly.
“I thought as much.”
Maverick stepped out first.
He scanned the entrance, the rooftop across the street, the windows overlooking the museum and finally the crowd waiting behind the barriers.
Satisfied, he opened my door.
“All clear.”
I stepped onto the stone pavement, adjusting the cuff of my charcoal suit more out of habit than necessity.
The evening air carried the scent of rain lingering somewhere beyond the city.
Good.
Rain usually kept reporters impatient.
As we approached the entrance, conversations softened.
Not completely.
Just enough.
The museum director excused himself from a group of donors before crossing the marble steps toward me with an eager smile.
“Mr. Kross. We're honoured you could attend.”
“I received your invitation.”
“And your donation.”
His smile widened.
“The foundation is incredibly grateful.”
I inclined my head.
“I'm glad it'll be put to good use.”
Relief flickered across his face.
People often expected something else.
A speech.
A request.
Recognition.
I wanted none of them.
Inside, crystal chandeliers cast warm light across marble floors polished to the point of reflection.
Champagne drifted through the room in silver trays.
Diamonds glittered.
Laughter echoed beneath ceilings painted centuries before anyone in the room had been born.
Everything looked expensive.
Almost nothing felt priceless.
“Good evening, Mr. Kross.”
Cora appeared at my side, tablet tucked neatly beneath one arm.
Professional as always.
“There have been a few changes to the bidding order.”
I accepted the updated catalogue.
“Anything significant?”
“Three private collectors withdrew their lots this afternoon.”
I skimmed the pages.
“No reason given?”
“They preferred discretion.”
That usually meant a better offer had arrived elsewhere.
I turned another page.
Stopped.
Lot Twenty-Seven.
My eyes remained fixed on the photograph.
For several seconds...
The room disappeared.
A quiet garden unfolded across the canvas.
White roses climbed an old stone wall beneath a sky washed in late afternoon light.
An open book rested on a weathered wooden bench.
No one sat beside it.
No one needed to.
Every brushstroke carried her hand.
The colours were gentle.
Unhurried.
Hopeful.
In the lower corner, half-hidden beneath layers of white paint...
A tiny butterfly.
She tucked one into every painting.
Most people never found it.
They were never looking.
Beside me, Georgios noticed the movement.
He always did.
“The portrait?” he asked quietly.
I nodded once.
“The original.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I've spent seven years looking for it.”
His gaze lingered on the catalogue before returning to me.
“Would you like me to approach the owner privately, Young Master?”
“No.”
He waited.
I closed the catalogue.
“She believed art belonged to everyone willing to understand it.”
Not merely those wealthy enough to own it.
Georgios's expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“As your mother always said...”
“‘A painting hidden is a conversation silenced.'”
He smiled.
“So you do remember.”
“I remember everything.”
The words left my mouth before I realised how true they were.
“The auction will begin in five minutes,” Cora said, glancing discreetly at the time on her tablet.
I closed the catalogue.
“Let's get this over with.”
She nodded once before disappearing into the crowd, already answering another call through the small earpiece tucked beneath her hair.
Efficient.
One of the reasons I'd hired her.
The museum's main gallery had been transformed for the evening.
Rows of polished mahogany chairs faced a raised stage where each painting would be displayed beneath carefully positioned lights. Crystal glasses rested beside every seat, untouched by most of the guests already too occupied introducing themselves to one another.
I recognised more faces than I cared to acknowledge.
Politicians.
CEOs.
Collectors.
Families whose fortunes had survived centuries.
Others whose fortunes had survived only stock markets.
Some offered polite nods as I passed.
Others quickly looked away.
Fear was an interesting thing.
Most people assumed it looked like panic.
It didn't.
More often...
It looked like excessive politeness.
“My, my...”
A familiar voice drifted from somewhere behind me.
“I was beginning to think you no longer attended these things.”
I turned.
Leonard Ashcroft.
Shipping magnate.
Collector.
Annoyingly observant.
He extended his hand.
I shook it once.
“Leonard.”
“You look well.”
“I slept.”
He laughed.
“I've missed talking to you.”
“I hadn't realised we'd stopped.”
“We haven't.”
His smile widened.
“You simply make every conversation feel like an interrogation.”
“I ask very few questions.”
“Exactly.”
Before I could answer, his wife approached, linking her arm through his.
“Mr. Kross.”
Her smile was warm.
Genuine.
Not rehearsed.
“It has been far too long.”
“Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“I heard about your donation.”
“I hoped you wouldn't.”
She laughed softly.
“You know that's impossible.”
Leonard adjusted his cufflinks before lowering his voice.
“Rumour says you're bidding tonight.”
“I usually do.”
“For anything in particular?”
“No.”
That wasn't entirely true.
I simply wasn't prepared to explain the truth.
A bell chimed gently through the gallery.
Conversations began drifting toward the seating area.
Leonard smiled.
“I suppose we'll discover soon enough.”
“I'm sure you will.”
He and his wife disappeared into the growing crowd.
Georgios stepped closer.
“You handled that well.”
“I answered three questions.”
“You answered one.”
“I was feeling generous.”
For the first time that evening...
He chuckled.
Barely.
Most people would've missed it.
I didn't.
“You smiled,” he observed.
“I inhaled.”
“Young Master.”
“I know.”
A ghost of amusement lingered between us before disappearing as quickly as it had come.
It usually did.
Maverick approached from the opposite side of the gallery.
He didn't interrupt immediately.
He never did.
Only when he reached us did he speak.
“The west entrance has been secured.”
I nodded.
"The roof?"
“Our people are already there.”
“The underground parking?”
“Cleared twice.”
Georgios sighed.
“I preferred when our greatest concern was whether His High...” He caught himself almost imperceptibly.
“...whether your tutor would catch you sneaking into the kitchens.”
For a heartbeat...
None of us spoke.
A memory surfaced uninvited.
Flour covering my sleeves.
Mother laughing so hard she'd had to set her paintbrush down.
Georgios pretending not to notice.
I blinked once.
The gallery returned.
“Those were simpler problems.”
“They were.”
Maverick looked between us.
He knew better than to ask.
The past belonged to me.
He'd never tried to take it.
A woman in a sapphire gown crossed the room, her eyes lingering on me longer than politeness required.
She smiled.
I inclined my head.
Nothing more.
She looked disappointed.
Leonard noticed.
“I swear,” he muttered as he reclaimed the seat beside mine, “half the unmarried women in this room have convinced themselves they'll leave tonight wearing a Kross ring.”
“They'll be disappointed.”
“I gathered.”
He leaned back with a grin.
“You know, if you smiled at them once in a while...”
“I just did.”
“No.”
He laughed.
“That wasn't a smile.”
“It was for me.”
“I'm suddenly very concerned.”
The house lights dimmed.
A spotlight illuminated the stage.
The auctioneer stepped forward, straightening his bow tie as the quiet settled over the gallery.
“Ladies and gentlemen...”
His voice carried effortlessly through the room.
“Welcome to the Laurent Foundation Charity Auction.”
I rested one hand lightly against the polished paddle.
Not because I intended to bid.
Because sometimes...
It was easier to hold onto something.
Than the memories trying to hold onto me.
The auctioneer smiled as the first painting was unveiled.
“A nineteenth-century landscape by Marcus Delacroix. Opening bid, one hundred thousand dollars.”
A paddle lifted.
“One hundred thousand.”
Another.
“One hundred and twenty.”
The numbers climbed steadily.
Measured.
Predictable.
I watched the bidders instead of the painting.
The man in the third row wasn't interested in the artwork.
He hadn't looked at it once.
He was buying status.
The woman beside him genuinely loved it.
She leaned forward every time someone raised the bid.
Her husband, however, kept checking his phone beneath the table.
He'd already decided how much they were willing to spend.
She hadn't.
Interesting.
The hammer fell.
Applause.
Another painting replaced the first.
Then another.
Georgios folded his hands behind his back.
“You've analysed every bidder in the room.”
“I've analysed most.”
"There are exceptions?"
I glanced toward an elderly gentleman in the front row.
“No.”
“There are simply people who don't need analysing.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they already know who they are.”
Georgios considered that for a moment before giving a faint nod.
“Your mother would've agreed.”
I looked back at the stage.
“She taught me that.”
Neither of us spoke.
We didn't need to.
Maverick remained near the entrance, his attention never lingering in one place for long.
Doorways.
Windows.
Balconies.
Guests.
Then back again.
He wasn't watching the auction.
He was watching everyone watching the auction.
Years ago, I would've found it excessive.
Now...
I barely noticed.
The fifth painting sold.
Then the sixth.
A sculpture followed.
Someone behind me whispered my name.
Someone else whispered my net worth.
Neither interested me.
“Ladies and gentlemen...”
He smiled as he looked toward the velvet-covered canvas.
“We now present one of the evening's most anticipated works.”
He paused, allowing the anticipation to settle over the gallery.
“‘An Unfinished Chapter,’ by the renowned Greek master Elias Theodorakis.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
“Painted twenty-two years ago, this extraordinary portrait has remained in private collections for over two decades and has not been publicly exhibited in fifteen years.”
He let the words settle before continuing.
“Art historians regard it as one of Theodorakis's finest masterpieces, celebrated for its remarkable intimacy, meticulous detail, and the enduring mystery surrounding the identity of its subject.”
A few appreciative murmurs drifted through the audience.
“To this day, neither the woman in the portrait nor the book she holds has ever been officially identified, making it one of the most discussed works in modern Greek art.”
The auctioneer turned toward the stage.
“It is our privilege to present it this evening.”
The lights dimmed.
A velvet curtain drifted open.
Time stopped.
She sat beside the window exactly as I remembered.
One hand resting lazily against an open book.
Sunlight spilled across cream silk.
That impossible expression caught halfway between concentration and amusement.
As though someone had interrupted her reading with a thought she'd found entertaining.
She wasn't looking at the artist.
She was looking beyond him.
Toward the gardens.
Toward somewhere only she could see.
The gallery admired the portrait.
I remembered the afternoon.
“I hate portraits.”
The painter laughed without looking up from his brush.
“Your Majesty, you've sat for portraits your entire life.”
“And I've complained through every single one.”
“You have.”
She smiled.
“Yet you always return.”
“You always ask.”
“I do.”
“And I happen to like you.”
He chuckled.
“So today you're tolerating me out of friendship?”
“I'm tolerating you because if I leave, you'll follow me around the palace begging me to come back.”
“I absolutely would.”
She laughed.
The sound had filled the studio.
Warm.
Unrestrained.
I'd been hiding beneath the staircase with the history book she'd ordered me to finish before supper.
She'd found me anyway.
She always did.
My left thumb drifted instinctively toward the finger where my royal signet had once rested.
It found only empty skin.
A heartbeat later, it settled against the emerald ring I wore now.
My grandfather's.
My mother's crest.
A quieter inheritance.
Beside me, Georgios noticed the movement.
He always did.
“The portrait,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
“You finally found it.”
“I did.”
A brief silence settled between us.
Georgios never looked away from the portrait.
“She always did prefer that dress.”
I studied the painting again.
“She said it had pockets.”
Georgios chuckled softly.
“Her Majesty claimed every dress deserved pockets.”
“She was right.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer announced, “we'll begin the bidding at twenty million dollars.”
A paddle lifted immediately.
“Twenty million.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Thirty.”
The numbers climbed with astonishing ease.
None of the bidders hesitated.
To them, this wasn't simply a painting.
It was history.
“Thirty-two million.”
“Thirty-four.”
“Thirty-six.”
The gallery seemed to hold its breath.
The auctioneer looked around the room.
“Thirty-six million going once...”
A paddle rose near the front.
“Thirty-eight.”
The auctioneer beamed.
“Thirty-eight million.”
No one moved.
The collector lowered his paddle with quiet confidence.
He believed he'd won.
Cora stepped closer.
She didn't ask why.
She already knew.
“Mr. Kross?”
I never looked away from the portrait.
Not the price.
Not the bidders.
Only her.
The streak of blue paint beneath her thumb.
The curl refusing to stay pinned behind her ear.
The tiny details no one else in the room would ever understand.
“Forty.”
Cora raised the paddle.
“Forty million.”
The gallery froze.
Not the respectful stillness expected at an auction.
The kind of quiet that arrives when everyone realizes the bidding has already ended.
Several heads turned toward me.
Others simply stared.
Across the aisle, the collector let out a quiet breath before lowering his paddle.
A faint smile touched his lips.
“I suppose,” he said, “there's no competing with Mr. Kross.”
There never had been.
Not because I possessed more money.
Because I possessed more reason.
The hammer struck.
“Sold for forty million dollars to Paddle Seven.”
Applause erupted throughout the gallery.
I didn't join it.
My eyes remained on the portrait.
For everyone else...
They'd just witnessed the sale of a masterpiece.
For me...
After seven years...
I'd finally brought my mother home.
- Writer
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