Neither of them moved. Lorraine stood at the window, her hand resting against the edge of the filing cabinet behind her. Across the open lawn, Marcus had not shifted an inch. His phone was lowered, both hands at his sides now, and he looked directly at her with a stillness that was entirely calculated.
He’s waiting for me to blink first.
She refused to look away. She kept her posture straight and gave him nothing; twenty meters of open grass separated them, but the distance felt completely hollow. He had taken the photographs. She had watched him do it, and now he stood there without any hurry, as if he had already won this whole encounter.
Not yet, Marcus. Not yet.
She had the file in her hands. His name sat on an old boundary claim that had stalled because she had blocked it herself. Whatever he wanted, she needed the entire picture before she made a move. An early confrontation would only push him back into the dark, so she held the window and kept his gaze.
The intercom on her desk crackled.
“Ms. Hayes?” The front-desk assistant sounded frantic. “The florist is here right now. They’ve arrived early, something about the delivery van schedule, and they’re demanding east corridor access immediately.”
“Why are they twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule?” Lorraine asked into the speaker. “Did anyone approve their access?”
“No, Ms. Hayes. They said they can’t wait outside with the flowers in the sun. Should I let them start unloading?”
“Absolutely not. Can you guarantee the ground floor setup stays intact if you let them in alone?”
“I don’t know the layout for the archways,” the assistant confessed in a rush. “They have three large carts, and the driver says they’ll leave the boxes in the main hall if nobody opens the double doors right this second. What should I tell them?”
Lorraine looked across the grass one more time. Marcus had not moved. He stayed framed in the upper window of Suite 4E, watching her with that patient expression. He would stay exactly like that, visible and seemingly cooperative, while he waited for her to abandon her post.
Leaving the florist’s team unsupervised would wreck the venue. The ribbon placements, the archway measurements, and the tables could not fall to an assistant who did not know the floor plan. If she failed to step in, the setup would unravel before noon.
The choice was clear: lose Marcus for a few hours, or lose the entire venue.
Her frustration spiked, but her resolve stayed firm. She stepped away from the glass.
“Tell them I’m on my way,” she ordered into the intercom. “Don’t let them touch anything in the corridor yet. I mean it. If they move a single cart before I get down those stairs, turn them away.”
“Yes, Ms. Hayes!”
Lorraine picked up her clipboard from the desk and walked to the door. She did not glance back; she knew Marcus would still be standing there with that calm smirk. Let him believe he had won. She had plenty of ways to handle him.Marcus reached the bottom of the staircase before Lorraine’s heels finished clicking along the floor above. He kept his pace steady and casual, like a man merely killing time while his girlfriend sorted out wedding arrangements. The portrait gallery opened just off the foyer behind a wide arch and two parted doors, so he slipped inside.
Simone looked up from a fan of ribbon samples laid across a small table. She was visibly relieved to see him.
“Oh, thank God. I’ve been standing here arguing with myself for twenty minutes.” She raised two swatches, one ivory and one cream. “Which one reads better against the dark frames? I honestly can’t tell anymore.”
“I’m useless at this,” Marcus said as he walked toward her, “but I’ll hold things if it helps.”
Perfect.
She handed him the ivory ribbon and gestured toward the far end of the room. “Start over there near the older portraits, and hold it up at frame height.”
He walked the gallery slowly; the portraits hung in chronological order along both long walls, and he recognized the pattern at once. The oldest generation occupied the left side, branching rightward across generations, with small brass nameplates set beneath the heavy woodwork. He raised the ribbon beside the first gilded frame, tilting the phone out of his jacket pocket so the camera aimed straight at the wall.
“Higher,” Simone called out. “A bit to the left.”
“Like this?” he asked.
“That one’s good. Now move to the next.”
He shifted down the line. She kept calling out instructions to step left, hold it flat, or switch to the cream sample, and he snapped photos with every new adjustment. Each angle she asked for put him exactly where he wanted to be. The family lineage was much clearer than he had expected; names matched, and the dates filled in what the boundary file had left vague.
There it is.
Marcus kept his face completely blank. To anyone watching, he was just an attentive boyfriend checking ribbon shades against antique mouldings.
“You’re actually being helpful,” Simone said in surprise. “Usually Daniel just stands there looking pained.”
“Who’s Daniel?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Does the cream look warmer to you against the wood tones?”
“Definitely warmer,” he answered, angling his phone toward the final frame in the corner. It was the oldest piece on the wall, bearing the exact name he had come to find. The shutter fired silently.
Done.
Voices drifted in from the foyer, low at first, then carrying through the hall. A woman barked directions, followed by the clatter of a cart wheel rolling over hard tile.
Marcus stepped away from the wall and offered the ribbon back with an easy smile. “I think you’ve got your answer. Cream.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Seriously.” She took the swatch and turned back toward the table.
“Happy to help,” he said, slipping the phone away. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Marcus crossed the room toward the east wing stairs; the documentation was safe in his pocket, while the voices in the foyer grew louder with every step.Lorraine stepped back into her office and closed the door behind her.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and answered immediately.
“Is the east wing secure?” Lorraine asked.
“The florist is handled,” her assistant reported on the other end. “The carts are in position, the archway measurements are confirmed, and the corridor is locked down again. Exactly twelve minutes, start to finish.”
“Good. Keep the staff out of that corridor until the rehearsal starts,” Lorraine said, walking straight to the window.
“Do you need me to check on Suite 4E?”
“No,” Lorraine said. “I’ll handle it.”
She hung up and looked across the courtyard. Suite 4E was dark. The glass was empty, the curtain was still, and the silhouette that had occupied the room for the better part of an hour was completely gone. She had known he would move the instant she walked away, but knowing it and seeing the physical proof of it were two entirely different things.
He had not wasted a single second.
Lorraine scanned the east wing methodically, checking floor by floor and window by window. The upper level was empty. The side corridor showed no movement at all. Then she checked the ground floor, where the lights of the portrait gallery, beside the entrance arch, still burned warm against the bright afternoon sun.
A shadow shifted behind the glass.
Lorraine stood completely still. The dark outline moved along the far wall without rushing, stopping at regular intervals. He was not wandering through the art. He worked the room in exact sequence, the way a person moved when they already knew what they had come to find.
The gallery. Of course it was the gallery. She had known it from the moment he arrived, even if she refused to admit it aloud.
She turned away from the window and went straight to the filing cabinet. The small brass key was already in her hand. She unlocked the top drawer and pulled the thick folder without hesitating. The tab bore the name Marcus Reeves in bold block print, filed two years ago and never formally closed.
She dropped it onto the desk and flipped it open.
The boundary claim map sat right on top, exactly where she had left it after the initial dispute began. The eastern property line ran in a surveyor’s mark across the parchment, and the boundary cut directly beneath the portrait gallery floor. That was the disputed parcel. That was the land he had quietly filed on through an outside solicitor she had only identified after digging through old town records. She had buried the claim before it ever reached the family, and she had told no one.
She looked out the window again. Marcus was still inside the gallery, standing by the far corner. He was not taking photos of family portraits for wedding ribbon placement, but building a case for whatever legal move came next.
She picked up the file. She had the original map, his name on a legal petition, and Marcus Reeves right in her sights. Lorraine left the file open on the desk.