Chapter Text
Seven months later…
Sophia propped her foot up on the makeshift pile of books underneath her desk and began sorting through the 'important' pile of mail on her desk, a steaming mug of coffee not far out of reach. It was early enough that the gallery was still closed and her assistant had yet to arrive. She preferred the peace that came with the space at this hour, the street not yet busy with tourists. And for this in particular, she wanted to be alone.
Vincent respected that when she asked, even if he didn't quite understand it.
It wasn't so much nerves as a lack of desire to analyze. She had rehearsed enough and could practically present tonight with no outline or cue markers. And the last thing she needed was Vincent picking apart words that didn't do either of them justice (although it was unspoken that he would always pay special attention to the perception of himself specifically).
She slid the latest edition of City of Love in front of her
The cover bore those alive to tell the tale of the past few months, involved in some way or another. Three portraits-those who had been killed in the process-held by herself and Audrey. A few individuals were, in fact, missing; Vincent was still awaiting an appeal, Hugo was absent due to the nature of his job, and Henri had declined based on principle alone. The backdrop was Sarah's striking choice of Francis Danby's The Deluge, a painting she had to negotiate for with the Tate, paired with its forged sister.
Most of the entire edition was dedicated to covering as much as possible. So much for quietly slipping away into anonymity again. And just after she and Audrey had been granted citizenship too…
Audrey's piece began with profiles on each of the individuals involved, red string tying candid photos together with short explanations for the relationship. It made sense; anyone outside of this entire affair would have a hard time keeping the plot straight on a good day with the number of people involved.
From there, it tracked Sophia's first few years of moving the forgeries, of picking the targets, working with Alexandre and Catherine, through the tumultuous Essence scandal and her complicated relationship with Vincent, and onto her contact with Kat. It painted her better than she expected, truth be told, given Audrey's love of critique.
It then moved to Kat's murder, Audrey's return to Paris, and her adventures with everyone, including the killer and the culprit for the flood. The writing took a turn and she noted that, for the first time in many years, this portion was written by the Editor-In-Chief himself. If Audrey painted with her words, Raphael composed with them; there was a poetic quality to his word choice, one that sought to rectify the injustice that was Kat's untimely death.
Sophia vaguely recalled a late night text from Audrey, not long after the surgery, a jumble of letters from too many glasses of wine. About not being able to write it. Seeing Kat's ghostly form every time she tried.
If she didn't know any better, an apology was buried deep within those written words. One that, if spoken, would become meaningless.
All the while, the article was dotted with significant changes in small blurbs; Louise Paquier starting her own security company, Henri DeValois declaring his mayoral candidacy, Sarah hiring Kat, Marion joining the Knights.
Everything eventually converged on a single date. Chaos wrangled into easy-to-digest timelines.
She learned about the flood stopping and watched Alia's hostage situation from the hospital bed, her wrist in a handcuff to the bed. After all, she'd still assisted a fugitive who was also a flight-risk with a lot of resources at his disposal.
Her healthy ankle still itched from the memories of the tracking bracelet. She got off light with six months of monitoring and immediate citizenship for her actions in saving Paris; Vincent served those six months under much tighter constraints and Alia, well…the woman deserved more therapy than she was ever going to receive.
She heard the telltale click of the lock on the front door and familiar heeled footsteps clicking across the floor. Her assistant wished her a good morning on her way to the kitchen and while she didn't mind the interruption, it made her long for the removed space upstairs, currently being used for storage.
Two weeks of rest made her stir crazy and resulted in the compromise of moving her office to the gallery floor, where her client meeting space already was. She hated how accessible it made her but stairs were an evil that needed to be avoided where they could be. She was finally able to move from a large boot brace to a smaller, less obvious one, and retraining herself to walk was frustrating and just as mentally taxing as it was physically.
A downside to this whole affair was having to go through resumes and interviews yet again, double checking for references regarding confidentiality and boundaries. Marion was many awful things but she had been competent in most of her duties. Adjusting to a new person and a new personality made for interesting moments amid…well, everything in the past few months.
Continuing, she discovered that her wish was respected, in preparation for tonight's presentation. Her article from the Oxford Art Journal, also published in the magazine in full. Telling her story, pointing out all of the flaws in the art world, how much of the art available to collect was likely a forgery. The techniques used not far from those who came before were covered in detail. It was a piece she had been positioned to write from the very start, back when the deal was first struck in an auction house reception room in 2013.
The door opening and low voices greeting one another told her the other two assistants were here as well.
Which was just as well. As if on cue, the front desk phone began ringing. Her private line followed. And then the tell-tale 'ding' of text after text. When the assistant hesitantly knocked on her office door with with a timid, "Madame," Sophia made a slicing motion across her neck and shook her head. One glance at the clock and a mental calculation told her these would be mostly New York calls, from those who just woke up. Probably even distant family.
The two other assistants wrangled the phones as Sophia turned off the ringer immediately and set the device to Do Not Disturb with barely a second thought.
All in all, the entire edition was perfectly written for both the core audience of the magazine and for anyone looking for a reputable source about the events. Exactly the kind of thing Audrey was known to craft and Raphael to assemble, threaded through with enough drama and intrigue to be compelling.
Sophia heard the door open nearby, a low beep passing through her office at the motion before her new receptionist gave her spiel about questions and information. The voice that replied was amused, mentioning they would simply be looking around and that he had an appointment with the owner.
There was hesitation, realization of a mistake, and a smooth recovery. Good. The two other sales assistants flitted about and then backtracked, seeming to recognize the sole occupant of the floor.
Sophia peered around her computer and caught sight of her visitor. A tall figure, his back to her, dressed in a bespoked navy suit. A familiar shape in an unfamiliar color.
She rose from her desk and quietly made her way to the doorway, an exercise that was more demanding than she always expected it to be.
Sophia waved her assistant off with a polite smile when the younger woman began to rise from her station. She was young and eager to please, that much was clear, and there was a kindness in areas where Marion had none. Medication left in the places she needed it and other anticipatory actions that made Sophia wonder if Eugene gave the girl a few tips of his own.
She pressed a hand to the visitor's arm, admiring the deep blue of his suit before lips pressed against her forehead gently. Keenly aware of the person across the room, their actual kiss was brief and just as soft, both of them adjusting more than they used to in order to close the distance. On other occasions, her heels made up for most of the height difference between them; those were officially banned until further notice.
"Tell me you let others hang this show for once," Vincent said, his attention drawn back to the pieces currently on display. "Because it looks remarkably like your handiwork."
"My dad did. I supervised. You were in lawyer meetings all day and he was going stir-crazy."
Vincent inclined his head in understanding. He knew as well as she did that her parents, while helpful over the past few months, were not accustomed to sitting idle.
So much so that they decided to get out of Paris for a few days. They cited her recovery as reason to step away and give her a chance to feel less like a smothered child. Sophia caught sight of the Eurostar tickets, first class, tucked into a novel the night before, when she peeked in to find her mother choosing between what to take and what to leave behind.
Her parents, despite their well-to-do life, never flew first class. And she couldn't imagine that, after dealing with New Jersey trains into the city, they suddenly had a change of lifestyle for a train ride.
Even if her parents played it off well, it wasn't like them. And they wouldn't have stepped back without talking to her first. But they hadn't and it irked her. She'd been too anxious about the party this afternoon to give it more energy. But now…
"Speaking of my parents, apparently they're going to Nice tonight. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Vincent's face, although stoic, was betrayed by his ears, growing ever so slightly pink.
"They might have mentioned wanting to visit other regions if they're staying for so long and asked what locations were nice for autumn. You were napping, it was a particularly tiring but successful day after the physical therapist left. Nice is more enjoyable when the summer visitors have left…I thought we could follow them in a few days."
It wasn't posed as a question but it didn't need to be; if she wasn't up to it, they wouldn't go.
They did a tentative lap around the room, Sophia focusing on the movement of her foot, deliberate motions to recondition her muscle. He was distracted, much as he tried to hide it; she could see it in the way he kept glancing down to make sure she was steady, how he adjusted his posture to accommodate her when she let out a hiss of pain she thought no one else could hear. He was worrying, teetering between the moment they were in and something else he refused to divulge.
Where was his head, then, if it wasn't here with her?
"The final draft was very striking. How did you put it then…it used the past to understand the present, to analysis the current situation this city finds itself in," Vincent murmured. "You pulled no punches in your conclusion."
"It's not like they can revoke citizenship for being critical of a system that doesn't even work." When he didn't respond, her stomach dropped ever so slightly and she asked, "Can they?"
"They could try but they wouldn't have much of a case. You're protected by free speech, such as it is."
Vincent returned her to the threshold of her office, taking the hand once holding his arm, a small but intimate gesture that pressed familiar buttons in her mind. She could never not think of that afternoon, drifting off into a morphine induced sleep, only to wake and find him gone.
"Ms. Cousland, I take it you are aware of the in-depth discussion and the opening of a very controversial exhibition that takes on the herculean task of exposing Paris' darkest secrets?"
Mirth danced in his eyes and she had to keep herself from laughing too hard, lest she lose her balance easily. She'd play along. Far too often, she saw worry etched into his face and it made her feel guilty, even when she had no right to feel that way; it was rare to see him like this, especially outside of the privacy of their own home.
"It's supposed to involve a lot of people that I haven't seen in a while, especially as one giant group. Why, are you attending?" Sophia asked.
"I am, it's the first time I'm able to step foot in public without worrying about recourse, and considering your actions were the most striking, I thought perhaps you'd like to come with me? I have nine o'clock reservations afterwards, I would certainly hate to dine alone…"
Sophia raised her eyebrows at him and blinked, pretending to be flustered for a moment before she reached up and adjusted his tie.
"Dinner would be lovely," she said, smoothing his collar.
She gathered her things and after a few quick reminders to her staff, they exited the gallery and headed towards Musée d'Orsay.
He did his best to appear normal, or as normal as he was expected to be. He stood in the back of the audience, listening as she verbally painted a picture of how the traditions of symbolism in art-different than the school of Symbolism that influenced Impressionism and Surrealism-continued today.
Every piece of her argument and her journey was supported by evidence in some fashion; he recalled late evenings when she made too much coffee and worked herself into a self-doubting cycle, wondering if everything she said just sounded like a conspiracy.
There was enough of that coming out of her home country as it was.
Before he knew it, she was passionately breaking down why this method was not only archaic but ineffective going forward. Art, not only itself but the education around it, was often reserved for the rich and the privileged. How could an organization that touted itself as being for the people use a system that relied on the perpetuation of that privilege? Doing so ensured they remained in power for the good of the public but clearly that failed if an American journalist looking for closure was able to do what they could not.
Although she spelled it out in the conclusion of her paper, hearing the words said aloud gave credence to her earlier remark of citizenship. They had given her an honorary citizenship for her service, or rather, the Knights made sure her name was moved to the top of the waiting list; calling them out seemed a poor way to respect that honor. It was, however, something that needed to be done.
At the thought, his hand brushed past his pocket, finding the comforting weight of a small box. The tiny thing weighed less than his phone and yet somehow it was the object burning a hole in his pocket. He told himself not to touch it, not to fixate on it, but that just made it feel heavier.
As he glanced around the museum gallery, he took in the clusters of people, broken off just far enough to keep conversations contained. Every single person Kingsley seemed to have touched over the past few years was present, much to his dismay. TJ Carter floated around and ended up in conversation with Leo, the poet and sometimes painter who completed most of the forgeries. The youngest of the group, a college-aged woman in a floral jacket, was kneeling down and talking to a young boy. A small hand was still clutching his mother's and he couldn't quite figure out how a woman like Louise Paquier was a mother, considering how volatile she was. A man the spitting image of Sophia was tuning a guitar, although it was impossible to miss the wandering eyes.
And in-between were both strangers and familiar faces, fellow collectors, curators at other museums. It was impossible to miss the glares and side-mutters aimed at Sophia and Sarah for upturning a centuries' old system. Exposing not only the Knights of Lutetia but the weak foundation the present art world found itself on.
Vincent couldn't help the grin that broke out across his face when someone made the mistake of saying a less than favorable comment to him. As if he would agree with the misogynistic slander based on a bruised ego and a career that was revealed to be almost a sham. His hand found its way to his tie as he promptly corrected the individual, perhaps a little too sadistically to be healthy.
While he was familiar with nursing a traumatized ego, he wouldn't tolerate Sophia being torn down. She hadn't endured everything up until this point only for some peons to tear down what she built.
His eye found her with ease, deep in conversation and relying heavily on her good leg. She should sit. Leave it to the planning committee of this entire thing to overlook the need for chairs and prioritize space for the audience instead.
What a hen he’d become. Her mother was doing enough fretting when Vincent wasn’t hovering nearby. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t push the guilt away. It seemed to linger, like a bruise that was faded but no less painful. They both knew, and came to terms with that fact, that she was the one who decided to go down and try and help Alexandre. She knew the danger and was too upset to care after watching Kingsley kiss him unexpectedly. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for pushing her to that point, heartless though he usually was. He might not have asked for that moment but he hasn’t pushed the journalist away, either.
Their relationship had been different when Catherine died. Back when there was still a debt between them. A barrier that served as a reminder of where their boundary was. Even then, it was his offer that resulted in her getting caught up in the destruction; it was what he hired her for.
And he would do everything he could to help her cope with the trauma he’d inflicted. Pay for her surgery and recovery requirements, her therapy, physical and otherwise. He loved her, after all. Everything else was secondary.
The food was good, much to his surprise (who knew tiny hot dogs wrapped in a biscuit could be so flavorful?), but he didn’t eat more than a few bites of anything. He had dinner plans, after all, and eating anything more would spoil them immensely. He nursed a glass of wine and kept his distance, instead choosing to stand along the edge of the room rather than in the small clusters of people. DeValois and Inspector Dubois were enjoying their thinly veiled expressions of frustration at his ability to be here, to play the judicial system, and he didn’t need to be close to know what they were discussing.
Air was a perfect excuse to get out from under their heavy glares.
Vincent wandered out of the wing and into the main thoroughfare of the museum, far enough away from the chatter that he could finally hear his own thoughts again. The longer they stayed, the more adjustment he would need to make throughout the night and more he was acutely aware of the contents of the box in his pocket.
He shouldn’t have brought the ring with him. It was another layer to manage and while he was good at multitasking, Sophia’s presence was, for a rare instance, a distraction. She was practically beaming ever since she stepped off-stage. Wasn't this what he promised her? The chance to make history, to uncover a plot that only came along every few decades, if not less.
He had a plan. So why did he feel nervous?
Perhaps it was the strong certainty of what came next. He never wanted anything more in his life, especially after his acquittal. Prison made him realize how much he had to lose and how he squandered moments away because he thought they were guaranteed time.
They weren’t. No one ever was. It should have been a lesson he didn’t need to learn twice.
“You’re awfully quiet for someone who enjoys the sound of his own voice.”
Vincent turned from the pair of swan sculptures he was staring at, a mated pair that only reminded him of the object on his person, and found Raphael Laurent, of all people. He expected Kingsley, given how amicable she and Sophia were after the trial, but never the man he blamed for Paul’s accident.
“Yes, well, I find that a reasonable distance makes me more palatable. Small doses, Laurent.”
The other Frenchman rolled his eyes but remained otherwise silent.
“I know where I’m welcome and where I’m not. I’m only here because Ms. Zembe allowed me to accompany the guest of honor. I hardly see a reason to stoke the embers of hate,” Vincent rubbed the sole of his shoe against the ground, an old habit from when he smoked that now served as a silent transition to leave a conversation.
He took a glance off to the side to find Sophia wandering nearby. She was probably hoping for an escape plan if she followed him out and away from the crowd. All the same, his heart skipped and he wondered if the box, small though it was, could be, in any way, visible to her.
As if it wasn’t obvious enough when they’d discussed the logistics of what such a union would look like. She already controlled so much of his holdings that financial expectations weren’t an issue. Their outlook was the same, an equal partnership, one that came with more of a public eye than she might have preferred the second time around.
Most of the attention was for her; without him, she would still be swarmed in her own right.
Like now.
Audrey Kingsley wasn't far behind, seemingly trying to urge Sophia to stay where she was. The blonde had her hair in a ridiculous style that made her tresses look like a bow and she was, for the first time (to his knowledge), wearing pastels. A long pink maxi dress fanned out with any slight motion, making her look more fae than journalist. The dark-haired woman protested until the journalist walked off quickly, leaving little room for more arguing. Sophia's shoulders dropped a little as she watched the other woman walk towards the food, and, as she caught Vincent looking at her, offered a thin smile.
She was ready to go. It was all over her face. He only hoped she would have enough energy for the surprise he had in store tonight. Stairs weren't her friend but they were the only way this would work.
“Sophia didn’t want to be fawned over," Vincent let his gaze wander to the journalist, plucking pieces of food from the table outside the gallery hall.
“If she did, she’d avoid you.”
Vincent was about to glare but realized for the first time in over a decade, Raphael was joking. To him. With him. His sense of humor wasn’t cynical or filled with malice, and Vincent felt himself relent, offering a mocking “ha-ha” into his wine glass.
Tension never left his body despite the air between them being the lightest it had been in over a decade. It was nice to know they could, for the sake of everyone around them, cut the nonsense. He didn’t blame Raphael for hating him, not after having him pushed into the Essence, and before that, buying out his own creation. He knew how that felt now, having what you made from the ground up taken away from you. Vincent frowned as he took another sip of wine, disliking the weight of his conscience immensely. Since when had he cared at all about what happened to Raphael Laurent?
“Should I leave you alone before you decide to push me into the sculpture? You look…on edge.”
The darker haired man shook his head but offered no apology. Instead, he checked to make sure Sophia was distracted and then pulled out the tiny red box from his pocket, just enough to get the point across.
“How else am I supposed to be when my future is in someone else’s hands?”
It was Raphael’s turn to laugh, the cynicism his enemy knew so well returning full force. “Spoken like a man who knows what he wants. Trust me, not worth it, not even for you.”
“I think that’s for us to decide, thank you.”
Vincent almost had the box tucked away again when another voice chimed in on his other side.
“Is Vincent Karm forgoing his villainous ways?”
This time he did glare, shooting a look that could kill within a thirty-mile radius. If Sophia overheard, it was all over. He paused in the middle of putting the box back in his pocket, knowing nothing would escape Audrey Kingsley’s attention. She knew what to look for and there was no way he would be able to tuck away the box without her demanding an answer.
Audrey relented and glanced towards Sophia, who was now sitting and deep in conversation on her phone, her leg propped up on another chair, before she turned back and mouthed an apology.
Vincent sighed and gave the American a flash of the box before he slid it back in his pocket. He didn’t miss the shift of her gaze from Raphael to him. She had given up her best friend for the man next to him and although he’d seen them laughing together, there was an air of brokenness lingering between them. Raphael’s comments were not without merit but he needed to learn to let the past go.
If he was a hypocrite for still remembering Paul, so be it.
“I never thought I’d see the day you were without your usual air of arrogance,” Kingsley crossed one arm and casually adjusted her wine glass in her other hand. “She’ll say yes. You know she’ll say yes.”
“She’s said no to me more times than she’s said yes, mademoiselle.”
“Which is precisely why you know she’ll say yes.”
“That’s illogical.”
“So is worrying over something you have no control over.”
Vincent narrowed his eyes at the American before he looked back to the swans. He was too old to consider anything more than one chance at domesticity. He’d lost the first chance before it ever truly presented itself. A life without someone to spend it with was just the life he had before. The life that led him to the Essence, to his complacency, to his prison sentence. While he’d skirted the rules and pushed boundaries during his time served, he’d still been restricted severely.
Few people here understood what it meant to hold the person you cared about after a year of being touch-starved. Her hands in his felt heavenly, smaller but not without the resolve she stoked like a fire in winter. Then, he could just remember what they felt like before prison; how they felt on his forearm, on his cheek, or undoing his tie. He’d almost forgotten what she felt like in his arms, how utterly at home she made him feel just by being nearby.
No one had given him that. When people walked away, they left for good. But Sophia…
Circumstances kept her in Paris but that didn’t mean she had to see him. Despite his caustic last words to her before his arrest, she came anyway and made her stance clear. After that, he had a little more to think about and consider.
“I can’t believe I’m encouraging you,” Audrey abandoned her wine glass to a passing staff member. She reached up and fixed her hair ever so slightly before putting her hands on her hips. “But you’re overthinking this. By a lot. If there’s one plan from that over dramatic brain of yours I’d support, it’s this one.”
"Support what plan?"
Vincent slipped the box back into his pocket just in time to turn and see Sophia standing a few feet away, her injured foot just off the ground. Her eyes were merely curious but she wasn't oblivious to the silence that seemed to spread like a plague between the four of them. They had been talking about her and she knew it.
Distantly, he wished Eugene had been available, if only for the party. He was a good…what the word people used for it…ah, wing man, when he wasn't performing his regular duties. Vincent couldn't thank the man enough for what he did while they all waited out the judges' decisions. He was the one who made sure Sophia was not only following instructions but that her parents had the resources they needed to help their daughter. And that they were comfortable. It surprised Vincent how much that mattered to him.
How much she mattered.
Audrey's eyes flickered to Vincent's hand, the one not holding the glass, and then she took a few steps, taking Sophia 's elbow as she said, "The one where you sit back down."
Sophia bit her cheek, a gesture Vincent only knew from the slight shift of her lips. He was glad she wasn't alone, that this time she had a larger support network, but he still caught a sliver of hopelessness creeping into her eyes that haunted him, even when he slept. She was pushing herself in physical therapy and it was helping. Even her orthopedist agreed. But she couldn't go from surgery with a giant leg brace to nothing, not with the severity of her injury and the subsequent corrections.
"I'm fine," Sophia said, giving a reassuring smile to the journalist. "We do have reservations though and should probably get going if we want to keep them."
Vincent reflectively checked his phone, ignoring the tiny box, and found she was not only making an excuse, but an accurate one.
"You're quite right, especially if we want to choose the wine," he replied.
Her palette was as picky as his, which made the decisions all the more time-consuming.
After a beat, Audrey leaned in for a hug and said, "I'll make your excuses. Although, you know, some might wonder about what really happened the first time both of you left here in a hurry."
He didn't miss the wink the journalist threw his way, nor the hard eye-roll from Raphael. Although whether they were referring to the proposal or the events that brought them all together, he wasn't quite sure.
And truthfully, if all went according to plan, he didn't particularly care.
Something about the evening reminded her of their last proper dinner together but she couldn't quite place it. Was it the wine, light and sweet and fruity, the fact that the entire restaurant was void of any other patrons for the evening? Or perhaps it was the moment in the cellar when they first arrived, in which picking wine took longer than should have.
Her question of what he was hunting for was met with, not an answer, but a thumb and forefinger finding her chin and tilting her head. Vincent kissed her sweetly once, twice, before he gave her a taste of the hunger that burned beneath.
Their poor guide kept their eyes glued to the floor, tense posture indicating the discomfort of broken boundaries.
"I am trying to find something worthy of celebrating your recovery and the hard work you've done from a hospital bed and then tethered to the house like a caged animal."
The evening seemed to balance on the very precipice of that notion. He seemed to keep re-positioning things to be in a specific theme while remaining oddly quiet in certain moments.
Dinner itself was remarkable in a way Sophia couldn't explain and one she didn't want to. At some point, she stopped trying to remember everything and instead enjoy the moment.
Sophia didn't sense something was amiss until they had gotten into the car and come to a stop, not in front of their house, but a limestone building on Rue de La Rochefoucauld. In the dark, she couldn't make out the exact number but as they passed through the entryway, and a staff member greeted them despite the hour, her curiosity mingled with suspicion.
The Gustave Moreau museum was out of the way for a drive home, that much she knew. And there was no way the museum would even be open and manned at this time of night.
Yet they were given free reign.
Sophia wandered, admiring the many pieces she studied, mindful of the boundaries that ruled in such spaces for the paintings' protection. They had only been here once before, much like the Louvre, and despite the rest of the day's plans, she stood in front of Jupiter and Semele for the better part of an hour. She could count on one hand the number of times a painting made her forget how to breathe.
That very day was one of the reasons, she recalled, that Vincent fell in love with the spiral staircase in their home.
She could say that now, couldn't she? Their home.
Waking up next to him still felt like a dream. She spent years alone in the house (save the dogs and Eugene), that sharing the king sized bed felt unreal, even now. It would take her just as long to finally adjust to blankets shifting of someone else's accord, feeling heat where there previously was none.
Sophia climbed the beautiful staircase with great care, her eyes focused on getting her bad ankle to take her weight long enough to get her good leg on the next step. Vincent's patience was steady, a hand never far away to give added support.
When she reached the top, the sight in front of her stopped her right in her tracks in shock. The painting that normally dominated this space was gone and in its place…
She took a step back, her leg finding air instead of purchase, and she stumbled. Vincent caught her and immediately shifted both of them to take any weight off of her left leg.
Something in her shattered as she regained her balance and took a proper look at the painting again. Gone was Jupiter and Semele. The beautiful, intricate and powerful piece was, for now, nowhere to be seen. An absolute masterpiece. Gone. And in its place was a painting she recalled hanging elsewhere, not even in Paris proper.
Her mouth was dry and she felt like the alcohol was finally wearing off properly. She was shaken to her senses by her own disbelief.
The painting from the auction, the one she last saw hanging in the library in Chartres, was here . In front of her.
Here.
In Paris.
Among its brethren.
He would relinquish it from his collection? Just like that?
She suddenly found it harder to breathe and her eyes wandered, finding everything else as it should be. Sophia stepped closer, carefully, catching similar touches from this painting in the others surrounding it.
The entire home was a testament, pieces of a whole coming together to tell the story of a man who became one of the precursors to modern art, its teacher to the likes of Matisse and Rouault, influential to even the Surrealists. Despite the house being a turn of the century marvel, the interior was something out of a fantasy realm, famous stories condensed into singular, tense, and decadent moments.
It looked complete.
In her shock and awe, she hadn’t noticed that she was standing in front of the painting alone and Vincent lingered behind. She turned her body first, eyes still mesmerized by the painting, and when she finally turned her attention away, he wasn’t where she expected.
Instead of looming over her, as he normally did, he was down on one knee. Between his fingers was a ring that, although slim, glistened under the bright lights with a row of diamonds, its solitaire only slightly bigger than the rest. Warm fingers took her hand and whatever air she had in her lungs left again as the tears she pushed aside for most of the night burned, threatening her again.
“Mon Couer?" she whispered, the words lost on her tongue the longer she stared.
“When we first met, I knew you were many things. Dedicated, smart, and once past your icy exterior, passionate in ways that, today, have brought an industry to its turning point. Lethally purposeful, as always. You have an eye for things most don’t see, especially in me. With you, I feel complete, and that I can even say such a thing is more rare and precious than time itself.” He broke their gaze for a moment, recognizing that either of them would lose what composure they had left before he made it to the end. “I offer a new proposition, Sophia, one not built on unbalanced power, debt, and secrets, but instead focused on building a life together, whatever that entails.”
For a moment, she could only stare at the sight before her, her mouth uncooperative. It took several nods for her voice to cooperate and a “Yes,” to tumble from her lips along with stray tears and a smile.
Vincent was quick to rise to his feet, dashing away those very tears after sliding the ring on her finger. It was a perfect fit, she realized, as she cupped his face and kissed him, properly, for the first time in hours. Every time she looked at him, it was impossible not to grin. Sophia felt overcome with emotions she could barely name but all of them stemmed from the same, strong bond that had gotten them through so much.
“I think it’s time we headed home,” she said, tugging on his tie with her left hand playfully, admiring the glistening stones before setting her gaze up at him. “Don’t you?”
Vincent hummed in agreement, taking her hand from the silk material and pressing his lips to her knuckle. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
He led her back downstairs with great care and, arm in arm, they exited and headed into the crisp autumn evening, both of them as complete at the museum behind them.