onight, it felt like a countdown. Alex stood in the corner of the sprawling main gallery, a ghost

ad found him, a ten-year-old orphan with a sketchbook full of raw, untamed talent, and molded him. He was her protégé, her son, her

aist. David was handsome, smooth, the kind of man who belonged in the pages of

rld, just as she was the focus of his. He slipped away from the crowd, his feet carrying him upstairs to her private s

oft against his cheek. He buried his face in it, inhaling deeply, trying to calm the storm inside him. It

are you

ia stood in the doorway, her face a mask of disbelief that quickly harden

stammered, dropping the sc

and dangerous. The warmth was gone, replaced by a chilling disgust. "I take you

it' s not like

he party downstairs might as well have been on another planet. "Y

to be cleansed. Go to The Gauntlet. You will sta

etive art collective on a remote island. A place for artists who had committed "grave sins" -plagiarists, forgers, t

knees, grabbing the hem of her dress. "Olivia, please,

saw tears in her eyes, but her expression was resolute, hardened by

stone. He was packing a small bag, still hoping this was all a nightmare. She walk

said quietly. She picked up a

via,

s painting hand. He tried to p

, and then she brought the rule

in, white-hot and absolute, shot up his arm. He s

ping the ruler. She didn' t look at his hand. She couldn' t.

last glimpse of her, watching from an upstairs window,

he recognized the authority. And he recognized the symbol of power described to him-Olivia' s pe

," the voice on the phone said.