The Red Dress Conspiracy

Chapter 2 : The Morning After

Mama.

Mm.

You are doing the face again.

Elena looked up from her coffee. Luxelle was at the kitchen table with both elbows on it and her chin in her hands. Watching her mother the way she always did. Like she was taking notes.

"I do not have a face," Elena said.

You have the thinking one. Your eyes go like this. Luxelle pulled her brows together and stared at the table very hard.

Elena almost smiled. "I look nothing like that."

You look exactly like that. Eat your breakfast Elle.

Luxelle looked at her bowl. Is there a show today?

No.

Then why are you dressed already.

"I have the gallery to open."

It just opened three days ago.

"Which means there is more to do. Not less."

Luxelle found this deeply unfair but ate anyway. Two bites. Then she looked up again.

Bi Bi said her mother wants to meet you. That is kind.

"She said you were the most beautiful woman at the gala."

"Also kind."

I told her you were. She said it the way she said most things. Like it was simply true. Then went back to her cereal.

Behaves like Adrian, Elena thought.

Her phone rang. A number she did not know.

Miss Rivera. A woman's voice. Bright and fast. This is Celine from Monaco Arts Weekly. We were at the gala last night. Our readers have been asking about you since midnight. Would you be available for a short interview this week?

"Send an email," Elena said. "I will look at my diary."

She hung up.

The phone rang again before she set it down.

Miss Rivera. My name is Thomas Brel. I represent three collectors who were at last night's event. They are very interested in the gallery. Would it be possible to...

"Email the gallery address. We will be in touch."

She hung up. Luxelle was watching her.

Why do they keep calling? Because of last night.

Because of the dancing? Yes.

Luxelle thought about this. "Are you famous now?"

"No."

"Bi Bi's mother thinks you are."

"Eat your cereal Luxelle."

The phone rang a third time. Elena turned it face down on the table and finished her coffee.

By the time she reached the gallery, the street outside already had three people standing at the window looking in.

She unlocked the door and two of them turned around immediately.

Miss Rivera. I am sorry to arrive without calling. I am with the Monaco Cultural Foundation. After last night we would love to discuss a partnership...

"Come back Thursday," Elena said pleasantly. "We do private viewings by appointment."

She stepped inside and locked the door behind her.

Her phone was already going again.

She set it on the front desk and let it ring while she turned on the lights and adjusted two spotlights. By nine she had confirmed three viewings. Turned away two journalists. Passed one collector to Adrian for background checks. Scheduled an interview for a gallery assistant.

Not everyone who wanted inside this gallery was going to get in.

At nine fifteen she walked to the back. Past the storage room. To the door that looked like part of the wall.

She put in the code and stepped inside.

The hidden room was exactly as she had left it.

The desk. The lamp. The wall.

His photograph at the centre. Red lines running outward to eleven other names. And in the corner her father's portrait.

She stood at the wall.

And for a moment she was not in Monaco.

She was sixteen years old again. Pressed against a cold wall in the dark. Adrian's hand flat over her mouth. His other arm locked around her waist holding her still. She had fought him. Dug her nails into his arm. Tried to pull free. He had not let go.

From the other side of the wall she had heard everything.

Her father's voice. Then her father's voice stopped.

Then a voice she would spend the next thirteen years learning to find.

Adrian had held her there until it was over and the footsteps had faded and the building had gone quiet. Then he had taken his hand away from her mouth slowly.

She never made a sound after that night.

She pulled her eyes from the wall.

Sat down. Opened her laptop. Got to work.

At ten forty five the gallery door opened. She walked out.

Serafina Vance was standing in the main room looking at the largest canvas on the east wall. Red and black. One thin line of gold running all the way across. She turned when she heard footsteps.

Miss Rivera. Warm smile. I hope I am not too early.

Not at all. Welcome.

This one. Who painted it.

"Luca Ferri. Twenty four. Milan. His third major piece."

He is angry about something. Most good artists are.

Serafina smiled and moved to the next piece. Elena walked with her. Close enough. Not too close.

Your performance last night, Serafina said. The whole room is still talking about it this morning.

I am glad it stayed with people.

Miss Rivera. Half of Monaco wants to know who you are. The other half already thinks they do.

And which half are you in.

Serafina looked at her. "Neither. I prefer to find out for myself."

They moved on.

"Your daughter was at the gala," Serafina said.

"Luxelle. Yes. She is in the younger class at Monte Aurelia."

"My son Xander transfers next term." She stopped in front of a small black and white piece. A single chair in an empty room. "He has been asking me questions about the school for weeks. Children always know when something important is coming."

Luxelle made her first friend on her first day, Elena said. Has not stopped talking about her since.

Serafina laughed. A real one. Open and warm.

I remember that age, she said softly. When one friend was the whole world.

Elena smiled back.

And for just one moment it felt easy. Natural. Two mothers talking about their children on a quiet Monday morning.

Then they stopped at the last piece on the west wall.

A woman's back. Red fabric. One shoulder visible.

Neither of them spoke.

"I want this one," Serafina said.

That one is not for sale.

Serafina turned. Still warm. But something else underneath now.

Everything is for sale, she said pleasantly.

Almost everything, Elena said.

One beat. Two women. One painting between them.

Serafina smiled first. "The Ferri then. Deliver it to the penthouse."

"Of course."

She picked up her bag. Did not leave.

"Miss Rivera." Her voice dropped just slightly. Still soft. Like she was sharing something between friends. "My husband does not notice people easily. In seventeen years I have watched him walk through rooms full of interesting women and notice almost none of them."

"We barely spoke last night."

I know. I watched. A small pause. Women who get too close to my husband have a way of leaving Monaco. Not because I ask them to. Monaco simply becomes very uncomfortable for them.

The room was quiet.

Mrs. Vance. I have a six-year-old daughter. I run a gallery. I am not interested in people's husbands.

Perhaps. She moved to the door. Stopped. The Class Royal mothers meet Thursday evenings. You should come.

"I would like that."

"Wonderful." One last look back. "The woman in red. Think about my offer. Everything has a price. I always find mine."

She walked out.

Elena stood in the empty gallery and listened until the heels on stone were completely gone.

Then she went back to the hidden room. Opened the notebook and wrote one line.

She came to me. Not the other way around.

She closed it.

Her phone buzzed. Not a journalist. Not a collector.

The unknown number from last night.

I passed your gallery this morning. The light through the windows is something. M.V.

She read it once. Then typed back slowly.

My father always said the only honest thing about any room is how it handles the light.

Sent it. Put the phone down on the desk. She smirked.

She had just given Maximilian Vance something real without meaning to.

She sat with that for a long time.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Different number. She opened it.

Under it were five words.

You should go home Luxella.

Her real name.

Not Rivera. Not Miss Rivera.

The one she buried thirteen years ago. The one she passed to her little girl asleep at home. A child who would never know why she carried it.

But someone already knew she was here.

And they knew her name.