The L'Atelier Gallery was a sanctuary of hushed voices and carefully calibrated light. Sun streamed through high, arched windows, illuminating floating motes of dust and the gilded frames of 19th-century portraits. The air smelled of lemon oil, old paper, and quiet money.
Sydney smoothed the skirt of her conservative interview suit, feeling like an imposter. The vibrant, paint-splattered girl from her father's studio seemed a lifetime away. The woman in the penthouse mirror that morning had looked poised, polished, and strangely hollow.
"Your portfolio is impressive, Ms. Reed," said Madame Fleur, the gallery's curator, a woman with silver hair swept into a severe chignon and eyes the colour of flint. She tapped a crimson-lacquered nail on a photograph of Sydney's undergraduate restoration project—a damaged 18th-century pastoral scene. "The colour matching on the sky here is exquisite. A delicate hand."
"Thank you," Sydney said, folding her hands in her lap to hide their slight tremor. "The underpainting was remarkably well-preserved. It was more a matter of listening to what was already there."
"A philosophical approach." Madame Fleur's lips quirked in something almost resembling a smile. "We are looking for an intern with patience. And discretion. Our clients value privacy as much as they value art." Her flinty eyes held Sydney's. "Your background is… unusual. The daughter of Gabriel Reed. His passing was a loss to the community."
"Thank you," Sydney repeated, the phrase becoming a meaningless shield.
"The position involves assisting with cataloguing, minor restorative work, and occasionally, client liaison. It would require access to our secure archives. We run thorough background checks." She let the statement hang. "Given your current… residential situation, would that present a conflict?"
Sydney's breath hitched. "My situation?"
"A minor point, I'm sure," Madame Fleur said dismissively, but her gaze was sharp. "One hears things. You are residing with Damien Blackwood. The Gilded Cage is a… distinctive neighbour to the arts district. We must ensure there are no competing interests."
The message was clear: they knew. And they were wary. Of Damien, or of the connection to her father? Or both?
"My interest is solely in art preservation," Sydney said, forcing conviction into her voice. "My living arrangements are temporary, and personal."
Madame Fleur studied her for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Very well. We will be in touch by the end of the week. It was a pleasure, Ms. Reed."
The interview was over. Sydney walked out of the gallery into the bright afternoon, feeling like she'd passed a test she hadn't known she was taking. The offer of access to secure archives hummed in her mind. Archives held records. Records held answers.
---
Liam was waiting at their usual corner café, two cappuccinos already steaming on the small wrought-iron table. His face lit up when he saw her, and the simple, genuine warmth of it was a balm.
"How did it go?" he asked as she sat, reaching across to squeeze her hand.
"Strange. They knew. About me living with Damien. They were suspicious."
Liam's brow furrowed. "See? It's already causing problems. Syd, this can't be good for your career, for your… aura." He tried to smile. "You have an artist's aura. It doesn't mix with casino glitter."
She stirred her coffee. "Maybe not. But I need to do something, Liam. I can't just sit in that glass box all day."
"I know." He took a deep breath, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand. "Which is why I want to talk about the future. Our future."
Her stomach did a slow, uneasy turn.
"I've been offered the junior architect position at Foster and Sons," he said, his eyes bright with excitement. "It's solid. Good benefits. And my uncle said he could rent us the garden flat in his building in Birchwood. It's got great light. You could have a studio."
He was painting a picture, just as he always did—practical, sweet, full of tangible, achievable things. A flat with good light. A studio. A steady job for him. It was the life they'd loosely sketched out over late-night study sessions.
"Liam, that's amazing. Congratulations."
"It's for us, Syd." He leaned forward, his voice dropping, earnest and tender. "Move in with me. Now. Forget this insane will, the creepy casino, all of it. We'll get lawyers. We'll fight it. Your dad wouldn't have wanted you to be miserable. He'd want you safe and happy. With me."
He was offering her a lifeline back to the shore. A normal, sun-dappled, uncomplicated life.
"I love you," she said, and she meant it. The words felt true and painful.
"Then say yes." His eyes were pleading.
The image of the desert photograph flashed in her mind. The locked wing. The 2 AM encounter. The cryptic warning from Agnes about "old debts." If she took Liam's hand now, she would be choosing to turn her back on all of it. She would be choosing not to know.
"I can't," she whispered, the words tearing out of her. "Not yet."
The light in his eyes dimmed. "Why?"
"Because he asked me to do this. My father. And I don't know why. I have to know why, Liam, or I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what he was trying to protect me from, or what he was involved in. I have to see it through."
"For a year."
"For a year."
He pulled his hand back slowly, the warmth leaching away. "And what about us for that year? Am I just supposed to wait while you live with him?"
"It's not like that."
"Isn't it? You're living in his house, under his rules. What's next, Syd? Are you going to start working for him, too?"
The unfairness of it stung. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" He said it too loudly, drawing glances from nearby tables. He lowered his voice, a raw hurt in it. "I'm trying to give you a way out. A real one. And you're choosing the cage."
She had no answer that wouldn't wound him further. They sat in a heavy, hurting silence. Finally, he stood up, throwing some bills on the table. "I love you too, Sydney. But I can't just be the guy you check in with from your gilded prison. Call me when you're out."
He walked away, and she let him go, a cold certainty settling in her chest. The path was dividing, and she had chosen the darker, more uncertain fork.
---
Needing solace, or perhaps punishment, she took a cab to her old home. It felt different already—not just empty, but abandoned, waiting for new owners. Agnes was there, dusting furniture that was soon to be sold.
"Miss Sydney," she said, her face softening with concern. "You look tired."
"It's been a day, Agnes."
They sat in the kitchen, the heart of the old house, and Agnes made tea the old way, in a pot with a cosy. The familiar ritual was a small comfort.
"How is it? At Mr. Damien's?" Agnes asked gently.
"Cold. Full of rules." Sydney hesitated. "Agnes… what did you mean about old debts? The other day, you said Dad was worried about old debts."
Agnes's hands stilled on the teapot. Her kind face closed off, becoming guarded. "Oh, child, I shouldn't have said anything. Just an old woman's ramblings."
"Please. I need to understand."
Agnes sighed, a world-weary sound. She poured the tea, the amber liquid steaming. "Your father… he was a good man. A kind man. But before you were born, before the galleries and the charity balls, he had another life. He and Mr. Damien, they were like brothers, but in a… a harder world. There were business ventures. Overseas. Things that didn't always go smooth." She chose her words with obvious care. "In the last few months, he was jumpy. Getting calls at all hours. He'd have Mr. Damien over, and they'd talk in the study with the door locked. He kept saying he had to 'square things away' before… before he left. For you. He wanted everything clean for you."
"What kind of business ventures?" Sydney pressed, her heart thudding. "In the desert? In the Middle East?"
Agnes's eyes flew wide with genuine alarm. "You mustn't ask about that! You mustn't dig, Miss Sydney. That's the past. Mr. Damien is handling it. That's the whole point. Your father's last wish was to put Mr. Damien between you and all that… dust." She reached over, gripping Sydney's wrist with surprising strength. "Listen to me. Some doors, once opened, let in more than light. You let Mr. Damien do what he promised. You stay safe. That's what your father wanted."
But the warning had the opposite effect. It confirmed it. There was something to dig for. A past her father wanted buried. A debt Damien was supposedly handling.
Sydney left the house more unsettled than when she'd arrived. Agnes's fear was real. Her father's anxiety had been real. And Damien was the lock on that door.
Back at the penthouse, as evening fell, she stood at her window. Down below, The Gilded Cage was coming to life, a beacon of curated pleasure. Up here, in the silent tower, she felt the first, undeniable crack in the story she'd been told. Her father's final wish wasn't just an eccentric bit of parenting. It was a strategic move in a game she didn't understand, with pieces she couldn't see.
She had chosen the uncertain path. Now, she had to learn how to walk it.