The gallery was silent—almost too silent.
Jasmine stood before a blank canvas, the scent of oil paint and varnish lingering in the air. For the first time in weeks, she found herself alone, untouched by boardroom chaos or headlines dripping venom. This was her sanctuary—where noise became color and fear became fire.
But tonight, even this sanctuary wasn't safe.
Her hands hovered over her brush. The gallery walls, once filled with pieces from emerging artists, had been cleared out in preparation for her first solo exhibition under her new name:
Jasmine Leclair.
The name felt both foreign and familiar, like a garment she wasn't sure still fit—but wore anyway, out of necessity.
She dipped the brush in black and made the first stroke.
It felt like slicing into her soul.
---
Upstairs, Lucien reviewed the final security report.
Henri had gone silent—no press appearances, no business meetings, no sightings. It wasn't a retreat. It was a lull. And Lucien knew better than to celebrate it.
"Double the surveillance around the gallery tomorrow," he instructed the lead guard.
"Yes, sir."
He nodded, then moved toward the balcony that overlooked the gallery space.
From above, he could see Jasmine painting—furiously, beautifully—like the world might burn if she stopped.
She was the fire now.
He just prayed she didn't burn herself out.
---
The opening night came faster than expected.
Paparazzi swarmed the entrance. Critics jostled for positions. Jasmine wore black silk and defiance, her hair pinned back like a crown, her lips painted a shade that warned: Don't underestimate me.
Lucien appeared beside her in a charcoal-gray suit, his hand at her waist. They greeted guests, nodded to cameras, exchanged polite laughter. But beneath the glamor was a current of unease—like something waited in the shadows.
The paintings spoke of it too.
Every piece on display was raw, almost violent in its emotional intensity. One showed a woman climbing out of a golden cage. Another—entitled Inheritance—depicted two faceless men pulling at opposite sides of a woman made of glass.
The final piece stood in the center: a burning phoenix, half-submerged in water, half-soaring upward.
The title?
"The Marriage Act."
Jasmine stood silently before it as the crowd swelled behind her.
"She's remarkable," a voice murmured beside Lucien.
He turned to see Selene Dupont—the head of the country's largest private art trust.
"I've never seen work like this," she added, sipping wine. "It's not just art. It's a declaration."
Lucien smiled. "That's Jasmine. She doesn't whisper. She roars."
---
But while the gallery buzzed, the city's underground did too.
Henri's men were moving again.
Encrypted messages had been traced to a private airport. A jet was fueled. Destinations unknown.
Lucien's security chief called mid-event.
"He's not retreating," the man said. "He's repositioning."
Lucien felt the knot in his chest tighten.
"What's the target?"
"We don't know. But if I had to guess—it's not you. It's her."
---
After the exhibition, Jasmine and Lucien slipped away through a private exit.
The limo was waiting.
Security surrounded them like shadows, unnoticed but alert.
As the vehicle pulled away from the crowd, Jasmine exhaled.
"Did we win tonight?" she asked softly.
Lucien looked at her. "You did."
She smiled, then leaned her head on his shoulder. "Then why does it still feel like we're running?"
Lucien didn't answer right away.
Because they were.
And Henri wasn't finished.
---
Later that night, as the city slept, Jasmine wandered into her studio. The adrenaline had worn off, replaced by a strange quiet in her bones. She pulled off her earrings, set down her phone—and froze.
Her canvas was gone.
In its place was a single photograph.
Her.
Lucien.
And Henri—standing between them, hand on each of their shoulders, like some twisted family portrait.
On the back, a message scrawled in sharp ink:
"Your story ends when I say it does."
She didn't scream.
She walked to the balcony, breathing slowly.
Then she called Lucien.
---
He arrived within minutes, security behind him.
He read the note. His face went cold.
"It's a threat," Jasmine said, voice steady. "Not a promise."
Lucien looked at her. "We need to leave the city. Go dark for a while."
"No," she said instantly. "That's what he wants. For us to run. To look like we've lost."
Lucien ran a hand through his hair. "Then what do you suggest?"
"We make him think he's already won."
He blinked. "Come again?"
"We stage our collapse. Publicly. I'll 'step away from the spotlight.' You'll appear 'estranged' from the company. We become ghosts. Let him drop his guard."
Lucien stared at her like he was seeing someone new.
"You're thinking like him now."
"No," she said. "I'm thinking like me. The woman he underestimated."
---
By morning, the first headlines broke.
"Lucien and Jasmine Leclair on the Rocks?"
"Billionaire Bride Takes Sudden Hiatus from Art World"
Online vultures circled, theories spinning like spiderwebs.
Henri's spies would see it.
Believe it.
And act.
All while Jasmine and Lucien moved behind the curtain—building a case, tracing accounts, aligning allies.
They had three goals: expose Henri, secure their empire, and survive.
The stakes were higher than ever.
But so was their resolve.
Their marriage had begun as a contract.
Then it became a rebellion.
Now?
It was war.
And they would fight together—until the final canvas was painted.
---