CHAPTER 127: YOUR SISTER IS A THIEF!

Alice was sitting in a café down the estate. One of those quiet, mid-tier places with just enough charm to feel personal, but not enough polish to feel intimidating.

Her phone was in her palm.

Still on the same message.

Priscilla: Come here now!

Followed by a map pin.

Priscilla’s messages always carried the weight of a summons, as though she were doing you a favor by not physically dragging you.

But this one was on another level. It was exactly as Alice had expected. Because while Priscilla was on a business trip, she had caused havoc by visiting her Nicholas.

Alice’s eyes slid over the address again, thumb brushing the screen. As much as she wanted to go directly to Priscilla, she couldn’t. Not yet. There was something else to address first.

She set her phone face down and exhaled.

The chime above the café door rang softly. Her head lifted without much thought.

He was here.

Hardy Cresswell.

He didn’t immediately spot her; his gaze swept the room once, then landed on her.

She didn’t stand to greet him.

She’d been told standing for someone was a mark of respect, good manners, especially if they were a guest. She hadn’t practiced it the North. No one cared about those. She also didn’t do it right now.

Her eyes followed him all the way until he slid into the chair opposite her, his movements composed enough to belong in a courtroom.

Black-grey suit, sharp lines, but without the usual crisp shirt underneath. Instead, there was nothing but bare collarbone and the subtle dip of skin under the lapels, just enough to make the outfit look intentional, stylish. His dark hair, normally neat, had been brushed back, making him look different. Less like the methodical prosecutor she knew, more like someone who could pass for a man in an art gallery on a Saturday evening.

He looked like he was going on a date.

Not that it was her business today.

He leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table, his eyes scanning her face.

"Are you okay? Why do you look... odd?"

His voice was low, calm, but the question landed with an unexpected gentleness.

It was still strange, the way Hardy could feel like a reliable constant despite the fact she hardly knew him. His questions always seemed to come without the invisible hooks people usually carried in conversations. No clear agenda. No obvious manipulation. But Alice wasn’t naïve enough to trust that surface.

She tapped her fingers once against the side of her cup, deciding against any polite small talk.

"I met Aurora."

Hardy stilled.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not the way it might be in films, with chairs scraping back or gasps filling the air. It was sharper, smaller.

His posture straightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing. "You... saw her?"

"Yes." Her voice was steady.

"When?"

"Yesterday."

His jaw flexed once. "Where?"

Alice didn’t answer immediately. She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic of her cup instead, grounding herself. Hardy had this way of making questions feel like commands, but today, she wasn’t here to be cross-examined.

"Somewhere." Alice tilted her head slightly, watching his reaction.

The words hung there, deliberate. Testing.

For the first time since sitting down, Hardy’s gaze broke from hers, just briefly.

He looked toward the window, the sunlight catching in the faint line of tension across his brow, before he returned his eyes to her. "What do you think you are doing right now?"

Of course, he was smart to have noticed she wasn’t laying it all bare to him.

The shift in him was subtle, but unmistakable. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. The blazer shifted with the movement, revealing more of the bare skin underneath, but his expression was unreadable.

"She’s alive..." She hesitated, then added, quieter, "Barely."

His eyes narrowed, but instead of pushing for details, he asked, "What do you want? Since it’s clear you don’t want to give me any information."

She set her cup down carefully. "I want to be sure I can trust you."

"You don’t trust me?"

"Put yourself in my shoes. Would you trust anyone here?"

He paused, then gave a single, acknowledging nod. "Fair." His gaze sharpened. "Aren’t you scared, then? Since I know your secret?"

She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Go ahead and tell on me if you want. But if you truly care about Aurora... if you really want to save her... then I need to be sure. I need to know I can trust you."

His eyes flickered at the word she’d used. Save.

His jaw tightened. "What’s wrong with Aurora? What does she need saving from—" He stopped himself, his expression shifting as if he’d just realized she really wasn’t going to give him anything.

A slow exhale left him. "Fine. What do you want?"

Alice leaned forward slightly. "How far are you willing to go for Aurora?"

His gaze held hers for a long, measured moment. Then he leaned forward too, closing the space between them until his voice was low and unshakable.

"Maybe you didn’t get the memo, so let me be clear. I... will go as far... as the rope extends."

Her eyes didn’t move from his. "Then why didn’t you try to find her? Or save her? You must have noticed something was wrong."

"I did," he said evenly, pulling back. "But she never needed saving. And I’m not one to force things on others." His gaze softened slightly. "I like Aurora. And I’m not doing any of this because I expect her to give her heart to me. I just want..." His voice dipped, almost to a whisper. "I just want her eyes to light up. Once, at least. That is all."

Alice stared at him for a long moment, the words sinking into her like stones in deep water.

Her mind kept circling around the man in front of her. Hardy wasn’t lying. At least, not in the obvious ways people usually lied. His voice carried no embellishment, no melodrama. And yet, that was what made it harder to read him.

Dawin? She would be stupid to have herself attached to him. She just had the feeling.

She wanted to believe Hardy. She wanted to believe there was someone here who could stand on her side and not be swayed.

But belief came with risk.

Her nails tapped softly against the ceramic cup before she stilled them.

Finally, she spoke.

"I’ll bet on you," she said quietly. "I’ll let you know all about it... after you help me get justice."

One of his brows lifted slowly. "And what exactly do you want?"

She didn’t hesitate. "Your sister is a thief. Caroline Cresswell."

Hardy’s expression didn’t crack at first. Just a slow blink, followed by a tightening of his jaw. But his eyes sharpened, assessing her as if weighing whether she was joking or suicidal. "What are you talking about?"

"Caroline is taking ownership of a painting that isn’t hers," Alice said evenly. "And I have a feeling the one I saw isn’t the only one."

The faintest flicker of something. Surprise, irritation... passed across Hardy’s face, but he kept his voice level. "You’re going to have to be more specific than that."

"I am," Alice replied, leaning forward.

"Whenever I think about Paula, someone who painted that piece with everything she had, only for Caroline to hand it off as some sort of flirting gift to Hades, it makes my blood boil."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Alice, Caroline’s been painting since she was a child. She’s had exhibitions for years. No one has ever made a claim like this before."

"Then I’ll be the first."

Her voice was calm, but there was a burn under it.

"I saw the painting Caroline brought," she continued. "And I know Paula’s work. I know the hours she’s poured into it. You want specifics? Fine. Back in the South, the gallery offered Paula a contract. Except it wasn’t a contract. It was a scam. They were stealing her work to the East. Piece after piece. And I have a feeling your sister is connected to them."

She had thought it was simply a North, South, East thing. But now... there was also the West. It was all connected.

His jaw shifted as he listened, the measured stillness in his posture now edged with something more guarded. "Feeling?"

"Yes, a feeling! Because apparently, I need to wave around airtight evidence before anyone here even listens. I don’t have a signed paper tying Caroline to that gallery, but I know damn well she ended up with Paula’s painting."

Alice’s voice cracked with frustration, her hands slicing the air as if each word needed its own sharp gesture. "I want it fixed... please." Even her eyes were begging him at this point. "Paula is going to be so devastated if she learns about this. I don’t... I know nothing would happen if we do this ourselves. We tried before and I was blacklisted. But this time..."

The sharp buzz of her phone cut her off.

Then it buzzed again.

And again.

Three short, consecutive jolts against the glass tabletop.

Alice shot the device a glare, jaw tightening. Whoever was on the other side of those vibrations had no sense of timing.

She snatched it up with the kind of irritated speed that promised she’d be giving someone a verbal lashing in seconds.

The name on the screen made her pause.

Priscilla.

Of course, it was her. Who else?

She tapped into the thread anyway.

First message: I said get yourself here!

Second message was a single-view photo attached.

A pulse of unease rippled through her. Priscilla never sent pictures. Alice hesitated, her thumb lingering on the icon.

The third message underneath the secret photo being loaded was: Maybe you think I can’t do anything.

Something cold uncoiled inside Alice’s chest, and at the same time, the image blinked open.

It was Paula.

Her face was almost unrecognizable. The skin was red and swollen, mottled with hand-shaped marks along her cheek. Her eyes were raw and puffy, like she’d been crying for hours. The split in her lip glistened dark with blood.

Alice didn’t feel herself move. One moment she was seated, the next she was on her feet so fast the chair skidded back and fell over.