ADRIAN POV
"We need to split up," I say, breaking the heavy silence in the alley. "Right now. Before anyone sees us together again."
Scarlett looks at me like I've slapped her. "Split up? Someone just threatened to destroy both of us and you want to—"
"Exactly. They want us panicking. Making mistakes. Meeting in dark alleys like we have something to hide." I force myself to think like an artist analyzing a painting instead of a man who's terrified. "We give them nothing. You go home with Maya. I go back to my hotel. We act like tonight never happened."
"Except it did happen," Maya says. "And they have proof."
"Proof of what? Us standing in a bar during a power outage?" I look at the photo on my phone again, hating how intimate it looks. "Yes, it looks bad. But it's not illegal. I hadn't started teaching yet. Scarlett wasn't officially my student. If they release this, we claim it was a chance meeting."
"No one will believe that," Scarlett says quietly.
"They don't have to believe it. They just have to not be able to prove otherwise." I meet her eyes. "This is what Vanessa does. She plants seeds of doubt. Makes people question everything. Five years ago, she convinced an entire art community that I stole from her when it was the opposite. She's a master manipulator."
"So we just let her win?" Scarlett's voice rises.
"No. We outplay her." I pull out my phone, opening a new note. "Tomorrow, we start digging. But carefully. I'll research Vanessa—where she's been, who she's working with. Maya, can you find out who has access to university security systems?"
"I know a guy in IT," Maya says slowly. "He owes me a favor."
"Good. Scarlett, you—"
"I'll look into Tyler." Her jaw sets. "If someone paid him to cheat, there's a money trail. Tyler's not smart enough to hide that."
Despite everything, I almost smile. This girl is twenty-two and she's thinking like a detective. "Be careful. If he's working with Vanessa—"
"He's too stupid to work with anyone. Trust me." Scarlett's voice is bitter. "Someone used him like a puppet. I want to know who."
We exchange numbers—all three of us agreeing to use a messaging app that encrypts everything. No more texts the Puppet Master can intercept.
"Sixty hours," Maya says, checking her phone. "Well, fifty-nine now. That takes us to Monday morning at nine AM."
"My first class," I realize. "Advanced Art History. Nine AM Monday."
"Which I'm enrolled in," Scarlett adds.
"Of course you are." I run my hand through my hair. "She planned every detail."
A car turns into the alley, headlights sweeping over us. We all freeze.
"Go," I say urgently. "Different directions. Maya, take Scarlett home. I'll walk back to the hotel."
"Adrian—" Scarlett starts.
"Go. Now."
They go. I watch them disappear around the corner, then head the opposite direction. My hotel is six blocks away. I walk fast, checking over my shoulder every few steps.
The photo keeps replaying in my mind. The way I was looking at her. The Puppet Master was right—there is something there. Something I can't afford to feel.
She's twenty-two. I'm thirty-seven. She's my student. I'm her professor.
And someone's trying to destroy us both.
Back in my hotel room, I pour a drink I don't want and open my laptop. Time to dig into Vanessa's life.
The search results are immediate. Vanessa Chen, celebrated artist, just returned from a "sabbatical" in Europe. Showing her work at Ashford University's gallery next week. Represented by Sterling & Cross Gallery—my family's gallery, the one I haven't spoken to in five years.
My brother Marcus owns Sterling & Cross now. We haven't talked since the scandal, since he believed Vanessa over me. Seeing our gallery name next to hers makes my stomach turn.
I dig deeper. Vanessa's social media shows her at fancy parties, expensive dinners, private jets. But something's off. The timestamps on older posts don't match the locations. Photos that claim to be from Paris are actually from stock image sites.
She's been lying about where she's been.
I'm deep into tracking her real movements when my phone buzzes. The encrypted app. Scarlett.
"Found something. Tyler's bank account shows a deposit of $5,000 three days ago. Venmo from an account called 'Art Lover 23.' Mean anything to you?"
My blood runs cold. "That's the username Vanessa used when we were together. Her lucky number was 23."
"So it is her."
"Maybe. Or someone who knows enough about her to fake it." I type back. "Don't approach Tyler yet. If he knows we're digging, he'll warn her."
"Too late."
My heart stops. "What do you mean too late?"
"He just texted me. Says we need to talk. That he has information about 'the professor' I'm involved with. He wants to meet tomorrow morning."
This is a trap. It has to be.
I call her on the encrypted app. She answers immediately.
"Don't meet him," I say without preamble.
"I have to. He knows something."
"He's bait, Scarlett. Vanessa's using him to get you alone."
"So I'll bring Maya—"
"No. You'll stay away from him completely." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "This is exactly what she wants. For us to make desperate moves."
"I'm not helpless, Adrian." Scarlett's voice is sharp. "Tyler's an idiot. I can handle him."
"Five years ago, I thought I could handle Vanessa too. I was wrong. She's always three moves ahead."
Silence on the line. Then: "What did she do to you? Exactly?"
I don't want to talk about it. Don't want to relive the moment my entire world collapsed. But Scarlett deserves to know what we're up against.
"We were engaged," I say quietly. "Planning our wedding. Both working on our biggest exhibitions yet. We shared a studio, shared techniques, shared everything. Then one night, I came back from visiting my dying mother and found Vanessa packing up my work. All of it. She said her exhibition had been moved up, that she needed to submit pieces early."
"She stole them."
"She submitted them under her name. Changed small details so they looked different enough. When I confronted her, she said I was being paranoid. That we'd worked so closely our styles naturally overlapped. Then she went to the press and said I was the one stealing from her. That I was jealous of her success. An older artist trying to ride his younger fiancée's coattails."
"That's insane."
"That's Vanessa. She had emails I'd sent her discussing techniques, talking through ideas. She used them as proof that I was learning from her, not the other way around. By the time I tried to defend myself, the art world had already decided I was the villain." My voice goes rough. "I lost my gallery contracts. My exhibitions were canceled. My own brother stopped speaking to me. And Vanessa? She became a star."
"I'm sorry," Scarlett whispers.
"Don't be sorry. Be careful. Because if she's willing to destroy my entire career over ego, imagine what she'll do to you just to hurt me."
"Why me though? Why involve a random student?"
"Because you're not random." The truth I've been avoiding hits me. "She saw us in that bar. Saw how I looked at you. And she knew exactly how to weaponize it."
Another silence. Then: "How did you look at me?"
I should lie. Should laugh it off. Instead, I tell the truth.
"Like you were the first real thing I'd seen in five years."
I hear her breath catch. "Adrian—"
"That's why this is dangerous, Scarlett. She's not wrong. There is something between us. Something that could destroy both our lives if we're not careful."
"So what do we do?"
"We survive the next fifty-seven hours. We find proof of what she's doing. And we stop her before Monday morning."
"And if we can't?"
I close my eyes. "Then we both lose everything."
We end the call. I sit in my hotel room, staring at my laptop screen full of Vanessa's lies, and realize I'm in deeper trouble than I thought.
Because despite everything—the threats, the manipulation, the potential destruction—part of me is glad I met Scarlett tonight. Part of me wants to see where this impossible thing between us could go.
And that's exactly what Vanessa's counting on.
My laptop screen suddenly goes black. Then words appear, typed by someone else controlling my computer remotely:
"Still trying to solve the puzzle, Adrian? Let me give you a hint. The answer isn't in Vanessa's past. It's in YOUR past. Remember Prague? Remember what you did? I do. I remember everything. Sleep tight, Professor. Tomorrow the real game begins."
Prague.
My hands start shaking.
No. No, she can't know about Prague. No one knows about Prague.
Another message: "Check your email. I sent you a present. Consider it motivation to play along."
I open my email with dread. There's a new message. No subject. Just an attachment.
A photo.
From six years ago.
Of me in Prague, doing something I've spent six years trying to forget. Something that would end more than just my career if it came out.
Below the photo: "See you Monday, Professor. And bring Scarlett. I want front-row seats when your world burns."
The computer screen returns to normal, as if nothing happened.
I sit there, frozen, staring at the photo that could destroy me.
Vanessa doesn't just want to ruin my career again.
She wants to destroy my entire life.
And she has the ammunition to do it.