She stood. She didn’t rush. She calmly smoothed the heavy emerald velvet of her skirt and drew herself to her full height, her posture radiating absolute, terrifying authority.

“You are right, Charla,” Cailin said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed a cold, piercing clarity that cut through the room like a scalpel. “My tribute doesn’t have the… historical weight of a piece of paper.”

Charla’s smile widened. She thought Cailin was surrendering.

“Because,” Cailin continued, her lips curving into a predatory smirk, “the true value of art is never measured by the weight of the paper it’s printed on.”

She raised her right hand and snapped her fingers. The sharp crack echoed through the silent ballroom.

From the shadows near the kitchen entrance, Silas emerged, dressed in a sharp black security suit with an earpiece coiled around his neck. In his right hand he carried the heavy silver titanium briefcase. He walked with military precision, his footsteps thudding against the hardwood floor, bypassing Preston and heading directly to the display table.

Jeraldine leaned away, her face twisting in disgust. “What on earth is that?” she muttered loudly. “It looks like a bomb casing. How vulgar.”

Cailin walked to the display table. Silas handed her the briefcase and stepped back, assuming a guard stance.

Cailin laid the titanium case flat on the velvet cloth and looked out at the sea of faces, her eyes locking onto Charla’s confused expression. A rush of pure adrenaline surged through her. The trap was set.

She placed her thumbs on the dual combination locks and spun the dials rapidly.

Clack. Clack.

The heavy metal latches popped open with a loud, mechanical snap. Cailin grabbed the handle and slowly lifted the lid, exposing the contents to the harsh light of the chandeliers.

The titanium lid swung back.

Two of the hotel’s white-gloved art handlers immediately stepped forward. With excruciating care, they lifted the canvas from the shock-absorbent foam and placed it upright on a mahogany display easel.

The harsh light of the crystal chandeliers hit the oil paint.

It was a masterpiece of light and shadow. The swirling blues, greens, and soft pinks of the water lilies seemed to breathe on the canvas. The brushstrokes were frantic yet perfectly controlled, capturing the ephemeral morning mist over the Seine.

For three seconds, there was absolute silence.

Then an elderly man in the front row — a billionaire hedge fund manager known for his obsessive art collection — dropped his champagne flute. The glass shattered on the floor.

“Good God in heaven,” the old man gasped, his voice trembling. He stumbled forward, pointing a shaking finger at the easel. “That… that is The Lost Monet!”

The name hit the room like a shockwave. Pandemonium erupted. Guests shoved each other to get a better look. The painting had been a ghost in the art world, missing since World War II — a mythical artifact, a holy grail.

Preston’s face transformed. The smugness vanished, replaced by rabid, drooling greed. He took a step toward the painting, his hands twitching.

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