Chapter3

The study door slams shut behind me with a loud bang.

Robert releases his grip that nearly crushed my arm, turns to face me, his chest heaving violently.

"Are you insane?" His voice is low but sounds like a beast roaring, "Do you know what you just destroyed? The IPO plan! The family's reputation! Everything!"

I rub my aching arm and straighten up. "I destroyed the auction of a fake. That's all."

"That's all?" He steps closer, his face twisted with rage, "You humiliated us in public! With those ridiculous accusations! Who do you think you are? Without the Vanderbilt name, you're nothing! Street trash!"

"That's precisely what I want to discuss." My voice remains calm, which enrages him further. "About who I really am. About who my mother Anna really was."

The name freezes the air in the room for a moment. Robert's eyelid twitches.

"Your mother was an unfortunate woman, a tragic accident." His tone is stiff, "We adopted you out of charity..."

"I want the truth about that 'accident'." I interrupt him, each word clear and forceful. "I want to know the complete investigation report from the gallery fire that year, every testimony, every crime scene photo. Not the police's superficial public version, but your own internal investigation records."

Robert stares at me as if seeing me for the first time. "What makes you think there is such a thing?"

"Because you wouldn't let anything potentially threatening to the family remain uncontrolled."

I step forward, close enough to see his pupils contract sharply.

"I also need something else. Complete records of all anomalous transactions conducted through the Vanderbilt Gallery and affiliated auction houses over the past decade. Those 'artworks' bought at high prices and quickly transferred privately, those antiques with murky origins ultimately acquired by shell companies."

"You use it for money laundering, to defraud investors. I want all the accounts, all the forged authentication certificate samples, all the money trails."

The color completely drains from his face, replaced by a cold, assessing, dangerous look. "Do you know what you're saying? You're accusing me of crimes. Do you have proof?"

"I have enough to interest financial regulators and art crime investigators." From the hidden pocket of my evening gown, I pull out a small silver USB drive and place it on his polished mahogany desk. The USB hits the wooden surface with a soft click.

"What's this?" He doesn't touch it.

"An appetizer." I say, "Inside are some transaction records, from backup servers you thought you'd destroyed. And several 'Master Volkov' signed authentication certificate samples. Interesting—the signature style has subtle differences from the real Master's habits, but enough to fool most people. Oh, and some linked information about bank accounts. The names on these accounts should only be known to a few people in your inner circle."

Robert's gaze bores into that USB drive.

I see his fingers twitch unconsciously, then clench into tight fists.

He doesn't immediately deny it, doesn't fly into a rage accusing me of forgery.

He just stands there, staring at that small metal object as if it were a venomous snake.

After a long while, he slowly raises his eyes to look at me.

The fury is gone, replaced only by an unfathomable coldness and suspicion.

"These things," he says hoarsely, "where did you get them?"

I don't answer. I just look at him, watching as he finally realizes that the adoptive daughter he never truly knew holds enough in her hands to completely tear him and his empire to shreds.

The study is left with only the ticking of the antique clock. A new negotiation, or rather, a war, has just drawn its first battle line.

And he doesn't know that my cards, my real cards, go far beyond this. Where the true original is, who holds the complete chain of evidence—he can't guess.

Tonight, he won't sleep a wink.