Chapter 11: The CEO's First Suspicion
I don't believe in coincidence.
I stood a few steps behind Eva as she cleaned her brushes, my gaze fixed on the canvas she had just worked on.
Artists hesitated, even masters did. My mother always paused before a decisive stroke, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. She said hesitation was not weakness, it was respect.
Instinct meant memory, muscle memory came from repetition and repetition required time. Time, Eva Sinclair did not officially have.
The studio was quiet now, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the faint hum of the climate system protecting the artwork.
The stroke she had corrected still lingered in my mind.
It wasn't just accurate, it was precise.
"That technique," I said calmly, breaking the silence. "Where did you learn it?"
She paused, her fingers tightening briefly around the cloth in her hand. "I didn't," she replied honestly. "At least, not that I remember."
I studied her profile. She wasn't defensive. She wasn't trying to impress me. As if she looked confused by her own answer.
I stepped closer to the painting, examining the area she had touched. My mother's hand was unmistakable here- her signature rhythm, her controlled pressure, the slight curve at the end of each motion. I had watched her paint for years as a child. I knew her work better than anyone alive.
And Eva had replicated it without hesitation.
"No formal training?" I asked.
"I took a few community classes," she said. "Nothing advanced. Most of what I do just happens."
That was not an answer that satisfied me.
I straightened, folding my arms. Logic told me this was impossible. Technique like that took years, decades to master.
Elara had once said that some strokes could not be taught, only passed on. At the time, I had assumed it was artistic arrogance.
Now, I wasn't so sure.
"You didn't hesitate," I said quietly. "You didn't analyze the damage or sketch first. You knew exactly what was missing."
"I felt it," she admitted. "Like something was wrong. And fixing it felt natural."
"Natural"
That was the word that disturbed me most.
I dismissed her shortly after, citing a full day ahead. She gathered her things and left the studio, unaware of the storm forming behind his composed exterior.
The moment the door closed, I activated the security glass and turned back to the painting alone.
I leaned in, my eyes scanning the surface under enhanced lighting. The stroke she had added blended seamlessly so perfectly that it was impossible to tell where my mother's hand ended and Eva's began.
For the first time in years, I felt something close to unease.
I moved to my desk and pulled up archived footage- old interviews, restoration notes, gallery documentation. Elara's work patterns filled the screen. Stroke angles, pressure variation, and signature transitions.
They matched, too closely.
I exhaled slowly, fingers drumming once against the desk. This was not proof. It was suspicion. But suspicion had built empires and destroyed them.
My mind drifted to Eva again. Her startled expression when the brush moved on its own. The way her hand had trembled after, not before, as if her body reacted only once her mind caught up.
She hadn't been pretending.
That, more than anything, unsettled me.
I opened a new file and hesitated for only a second before typing her name.
Eva Sinclair...
The file opened, I examined the facts- No parents listed, no early records, no childhood art education. Just fragmented data that began too late.
People did not simply began existing at nine years old. Someone had failed to record her or someone had chosen not to.
I closed Eva's file and opened another, My mother's personal archives.
Most of it was mundane, schedules, notes, early drafts, correspondence with collectors and institution.
My mother had lived surrounded by secrets- A rumored student, a fire that destroyed more than a studio and an unfinished painting she had guarded until her death.
And now a young woman with no past had walked in and displayed similar strokes.
I closed the file slowly.
For the first time since inheriting the painting, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that it was not waiting to be finished.
It was waiting for someone.
And Eva Sinclair might be the answer I had not known I was searching for.
I reached for the internal line and stopped halfway.
Calling security would be easy, ordering a background investigation would be easier, I have the power to thoroughly investigate her entire life within hours if I choose to.
But power without understanding is reckless and recklessness would cost me everything.
I issued a quieter command- "flag all orphanage records within a five year radius of the fire," I said into the system. "Cross reference with miss child cases. Priority level one."
The system acknowledged the request.
I exhaled slowly.
I glanced once more at the painting, I could feel my mother's final silence staring back at me.