The Blackwood penthouse was a monument to wealth and an absence of human warmth. Rory's "separate quarters," situated at the opposite end of the vast, silent apartment from Julian's master suite, were technically luxurious, but felt less like a bedroom and more like a high-end holding cell.
She spent the morning meticulously unpacking her few belongings, arranging her antique repair tools—the tiny chisels, specialized solvents, and high-powered loupes—beneath the expensive veneer of the bedroom vanity. Her true life, the one tethered to her work, had to remain concealed. The contract might grant her access to Julian's archives, but it didn't grant him access to her secrets.
She was running a race against time. The five hundred days had begun.
At 7:00 PM precisely, a text message arrived on the burner phone Julian had provided: "7:45 PM. Black Tie. No excuses. D."
The 'D' stood for Davies, the Chief Counsel. Julian, predictably, hadn't bothered to send the instruction himself.
Rory looked at the one evening dress she had packed: a simple, charcoal silk sheath that screamed "competent secretary," not "billionaire's wife." It was her deliberate armor. She wanted to look exactly like the kind of woman Julian Blackwood would contract—forgettable, efficient, and utterly lacking in ostentation.
When she stepped out, she found Julian waiting by the elevator, leaning against the cold marble wall like a sculpture carved from granite. He was already in his tuxedo, the sharp lines emphasizing the lethal grace of his physique.
His eyes scanned her outfit once, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them—disappointment, perhaps, or irritation that she wasn't playing the part with more flair.
"That will suffice, Rory," he said, pushing off the wall. "But understand this: Tonight is not about subtlety. It is about a display. You are a necessary extravagance. Try to at least look expensive, if not enthusiastic."
"I am an efficient variable, Julian. Not an extravagance," Rory corrected coolly, stepping into the elevator. "And you paid for my presence, not my enthusiasm. I reserve that for actual masterpieces, not business associates."
The corners of his lips twitched, the closest thing to amusement she had yet seen from him. "Point taken. Tonight, we are attending the annual Sterling Foundation Gala. It's primarily a money laundering operation disguised as charity. Keep your opinions and your wit to a minimum. Your function is silence and support."
"Understood," she murmured, watching the lights flicker as they descended. Silence and support. A perfect cover for observation.
The ballroom of the Grand Regent Hotel was a suffocating expanse of gold leaf and desperate smiles. As soon as Julian Blackwood entered, the entire room shifted its gravitational center. Rory felt the immediate weight of a thousand judging eyes—mostly female—raking her over, assessing her dress, her hair, and her proximity to the man every woman in the room wanted to possess.
They made the mandatory rounds. Julian introduced her with the same detached formality he might use to introduce a new security system.
"This is Rory. My wife." No previous name, no backstory, no emotion. Perfect.
The inevitable challenge came with their second stop: a stunning woman named Lydia Thorne, glittering in emerald green and a heavy dose of open hostility. Lydia was a known Blackwood competitor and a fixture in Julian's past social circles.
"Julian, darling," Lydia purred, giving him a kiss on the cheek that lasted a second too long. She then turned to Rory, her smile brittle. "And you must be... Rory. Such a simple name. I hadn't realized Julian had finally managed to acquire a trophy. Though, one does wonder why he went with the discounted version."
The implication—that Rory was cheap, dull, and beneath Julian—was delivered with surgical precision.
Rory felt the familiar ice of anger solidify in her gut, but she didn't let it show. She remembered Julian's instruction: silence and support. She would offer support, but only to herself.
Lydia continued, pointing at the delicate, vintage brooch pinned to her own shoulder. "This is an original 1920s Art Deco piece. Julian gave it to me, years ago, when we were... close. It's exquisite, don't you think? A real piece of history."
She was baiting Rory, forcing a response to either the brooch or the history with Julian.
Rory slowly tilted her head, giving the brooch the intense, microscopic scrutiny she usually reserved for a dusty canvas. The silence around the small group stretched taut.
"It's certainly striking," Rory finally said, her voice even and calm. She tapped her chin lightly. "Though, if I may be so bold, I believe the attribution is slightly off. The craftsmanship on the clasp—the soldering—suggests a skilled hand, certainly, but not the definitive precision of the Cartier atelier of the early twenties. That particular shade of blue enamel was phased out after 1927, and those specific cut diamonds were not commercially available in that quality until the 1930s."
Lydia's perfect smile cracked. "Are you implying this is a copy, Rory? I assure you, it was authenticated."
"Not a copy," Rory corrected smoothly. "A beautiful piece. But a 'period-correct reproduction,' perhaps. A very good one. The gold assay is marginally too soft for the official records of that era's high-end output. It's certainly valuable, but it's not history, Lydia. It's an homage. A very expensive homage."
The silence returned, but this time, it hummed with shock and sudden respect. Lydia Thorne's face was frozen in disbelief, her expensive piece of jewelry suddenly feeling flimsy and cheap. She had expected a meek little wife; she had gotten a highly specialized weapon.
Julian Blackwood hadn't moved a muscle, but Rory felt his gaze—intense, electric, and completely focused on her. He had instructed her to be silent, and she had been silent about the personal attack, but she had used her true expertise to deliver a far more devastating blow.
Lydia stammered, trying to regain control. "Well, what would you know about it? What is your expertise, Rory? Beyond marrying well?"
"I am an art restorer," Rory replied simply. "My expertise is finding the truth beneath the layers of varnish and the patina of time. I see what is genuine, and what is merely a very convincing fake." She leveled a look at Julian—a clear, cold message delivered through the veiled threat to Lydia. I see you, too, Julian.
Julian finally stirred. He placed a hand on the small of Rory's back—the first deliberate, non-negotiated touch since the contract was signed. The heat of his palm through the silk of her dress was a sudden, unwelcome shock. It was not a romantic gesture; it was a territorial claim.
He leaned down, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "I told you to be silent," he murmured, his voice dangerously low, a mixture of annoyance and dark satisfaction. "But I will admit, Rory, sometimes a good defense requires a surgical strike."
He straightened up, his eyes meeting Lydia's, who was still trying to recover.
"Ms. Thorne," Julian's voice was now arctic, carrying just enough authority to freeze the lingering gossip. "My wife's expertise is absolute. Perhaps you should ask her to verify the provenance of your next acquisition. If you'll excuse us, we have actual business to discuss. A new acquisition, actually."
He didn't wait for a response. He steered Rory away from the group, his hand remaining firmly on her back, his touch heavy and proprietary.
"That," Rory hissed under her breath once they were away, "was unnecessary and controlling."
"That was mandatory," Julian corrected, his eyes hard. "You are mine in public. You do not engage in personal feuds, and you certainly do not embarrass my associates without my express permission."
"I merely stated a fact about a flawed piece of history," Rory shot back, pulling slightly away from his touch, but he didn't release her. "You are the one who escalated it into a public display of ownership."
"And you enjoyed it," he countered, his voice flat. It wasn't a question. It was a statement designed to infuriate. "The way her perfect façade broke. You have a taste for blood, Rory Vance."
Before she could form a rebuttal, his expression softened subtly, losing the hard, CEO edge, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath. "Next time, however, if you are going to dismantle someone, give me a heads-up. It saves time."
He then dropped the topic and moved them towards a quiet corner, where an elderly, very distinguished gentleman was standing by a velvet curtain—Mr. Sterling himself.
Julian greeted the man warmly, the tension leaving his shoulders. Rory, seizing the opportunity, let her eyes drift over the curtain. It was covering a large, recessed display area. She caught a glimpse of a title card before Julian stepped into her field of vision: "The Blackwood Acquisition: European Medieval."
Her heart gave a violent lurch. It was here. A small, private display of the collection she was desperate to see.
Mr. Sterling launched into a quiet explanation of the display's highlights—a series of ornate gold plates and heavy velvet tapestries. Rory listened, but her mind was racing, trying to calculate the angle, the security, the distance.
Then, she saw it—not on display, but briefly revealed as Mr. Sterling gestured. Hidden in a shadow box against the back wall, almost casually positioned, was an oil painting, small and faded, of an unknown 16th-century Italian artist. It was utterly unremarkable to the casual eye.
But Rory, the expert restorer, noticed the canvas weave was wrong. Too tight, too fine for that specific region and era. It was a subtle, almost unnoticeable error, unless you were trained to look for it.
The painting wasn't merely flawed. It was a very sophisticated fake. And Julian Blackwood, the man who prided himself on absolute control and perfection, had a forgery hanging in his private display.
Why? The mistake was too amateur for a collection of this caliber. Unless the fake was meant to hide something real.
Suddenly, a massive alarm blared through the hall, a deafening electronic shriek. The lights flickered and died, plunging the ballroom into a disorienting, suffocating darkness.
Panic erupted immediately—shouts, gasps, and the sound of crashing glass.
Julian swore sharply in the darkness, immediately pulling Rory hard against his side, his arm wrapping around her waist like a steel band. This wasn't the proprietorial touch of a CEO; this was the reflexive movement of a protector.
"Stay still, Rory," he commanded, his breath warm and frantic against the top of her head. "Don't move."
The chaos was absolute. Rory could feel the rapid, powerful beat of Julian's heart against her ear, the raw scent of expensive cologne and adrenaline filling her nostrils. She didn't struggle. She was pinned tight against a furious, powerful force, feeling strangely safe and utterly terrified.
Then, a sudden, blinding flash from a distant camera strobe, followed by the terrifying sound of a scuffle near the main entrance.
Before Julian could move, Rory's professional instinct took over. She didn't care about the chaos; she cared about the exposed art. She slipped from his grasp just enough to lean forward and whisper directly into his ear, her voice cutting through the noise.
"The Italian painting! The small one by the curtain! Get it! It's a fake—and it's the only thing not bolted down!"
Julian paused, his arm still tight on her waist. He paused, not because he was confused, but because she had just issued him an order—and because she had mentioned the forgery.
"What did you just say, Rory?" he demanded, his voice a low, furious growl in the dark.
But Rory didn't answer. She was already focused on the faint, rhythmic sound of footsteps approaching their corner. Someone was coming.