Chapter 4The Wicked Game

Stella was quiet on the drive back, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Is Damian blind? How could he fall for such a pathetic, clumsy act?”

“He’s not blind. He just doesn’t want to see,” I said. “It doesn’t matter if Jenny was acting. He needed an excuse to put me down, and she handed him one on a silver platter.”

That was the power of being the main character.

“So what do we do?” Stella asked. “We can’t let her get away with framing you every time.”

“Let her act,” I said, watching the scenery blur past the window. “The more dramatic her performance, the more it’s going to hurt when she finally takes a real fall.”

Back at the apartment, I opened my laptop and logged into an international art forum.

I typed in the name of the artist Jenny had plagiarized: Anya Sharma.

There was painfully little information about her.

All I could find was that she was an Indian painter who held a single solo exhibition a decade ago, and then disappeared.

I clicked on the exhibition details.

A small, black-and-white photo showed Anya Sharma standing in front of one of her paintings.

The composition, the atmosphere… it was unmistakably the framework for Jenny’s First Light. At least an eighty percent match.

I saved the photo.

It wasn’t enough.

I needed something more. Something undeniable.

Something that would not only expose Jenny but would also ignite the fury of a purist like Alistair Finch.

Just as I was plotting, my phone rang. An unknown number.

I answered. It was the cold, impersonal voice of Damian’s assistant.

“Miss Zoe. Congratulations. You are now the guarantor for a new venture.”

A knot of ice formed in my stomach.

Here it comes.

The assistant continued, “A commercial loan in the amount of fifty million dollars. You have been signed on as the sole guarantor under an unlimited liability agreement. Should the project default, you will be responsible for the entire debt.”

“When did I ever sign that?”

“Mr. Blackwood signed it for you. In your name,” he said, as if discussing the weather. “Oh, and I forgot to mention. The project is scheduled to default today.”

The line went dead.

Stella had heard everything. Her face was pale.

“He’s trying to ruin you. Bury you under a debt you can never repay!”

The book’s cruelty was more vicious than I’d remembered.

My phone rang again.

This time, it was Damian.

“Zoe. I’m curious to see just how unbreakable you really are.” His voice was laced with sadistic pleasure.

“This was you,” I stated, my voice even.

“Of course,” he admitted without hesitation.

“Now, come to the West Side scrapyard. Get on your knees and beg me. If you’re convincing enough, maybe I’ll be merciful and make this little problem of yours disappear.”

The call was on speaker.

Stella’s fists were clenched so tight her knuckles were white.

I gazed out the window at the oppressive night sky.

“Damian,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “you really think you’ve won, don’t you?”

He chuckled, a low, arrogant sound full of absolute certainty.

“Don’t I?”

I smiled.

“Fine. I’m on my way.”

I hung up and looked at Stella. “Call the police.”