Chapter 58

Drew’s POV

The day had barely hit its stride when I closed my office door, sat down behind my desk. My office was quiet except for the low hum of the city far below, the kind of sound you could forget was there if you weren’t listening for it.

I came in earlier than usual, the kind of early where the hallways still smelled faintly of last night’s cleaning supplies, and the air in here was untouched, cool, crisp and waiting.

Max had been in my head all night. Not just because of what he’d done, but because of what I now knew he was trying to do. The Italian collection, the investors, the museum in Asia. The kind of play that could make someone a fortune if they didn’t care who they burned on the way.

The only problem for him was that I now cared very much about what he was up to. From the very moment he thought of ever sabotaging my launch he was already planning his downfall unknowingly.

Right on schedule, my private phone buzzed. The investigator never called the main line; he liked to keep things clean. I picked up before the second ring.

“What is the update?” I said.

His voice came calm and collected. “You wanted the collector, the investors, and the gallery. You’ve got all three.”

“Go ahead.”

“The old collector’s name is Matteo Bellandi. He’s based in Florence. Runs his family estate and has been in the business for over forty years. He’s not flashy, doesn’t sell often, but when he does, it’s through people he trusts. In this case, that’s the Armitage Gallery in London. Small operation and niche based clientele. They’re handling the negotiations for him.”

I leaned back in my chair, picturing it. “And Max?”

“Max approached the gallery directly last month, claiming to want the collection for personal keep. Meanwhile, he's using money from four different people to secure the sale and he is planning to sell it to the museum in Asia.

None of the investors know each other, and none of them know the actual asking price. He told them it’s worth less than half the real value, so he can pocket the difference when he flips it.”

The greed was like an open book. Clean, simple, and just sloppy enough for someone like me to dismantle.

The investigator continued, “Investors are: Wei Liang in Hong Kong, Peter Holt in Sydney, Anika Brandt in New York, and an anonymous trust we’re still tracing. They’ve each put in enough to make a loss sting.”

“Good,” I murmured. “Send me Bellandi’s contact and the gallery’s direct line.”

A pause, then: “Sending now.”

The phone pinged with the incoming message. I opened it, scanning the numbers like they were coordinates on a map.

“Anything else?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Bellandi is sentimental about the collection. It belonged to his late wife. If he knew the buyer didn’t deserve it or planned to use it as leverage, he would shut the deal down fast.”

That was exactly the angle I needed.

I ended the call, letting the silence settle again. Then I dialed the London number for the Armitage Gallery.

The line clicked, and a warm female voice answered, “Armitage Gallery, this is Charlotte speaking. How can I help you?”

“This is Drew Sinclair. I’d like to discuss a private matter regarding the Bellandi collection.”

A pause, it seemed to me like she was trying to find out my identity. “Ah… yes, Mr. Sinclair, of the Sinclair enterprise right?

“Yes, that's right.” I replied

“Hold on let me connect you with Mr. Armitage.”

Seconds later, another voice came on, older, deep, careful. “Mr. Sinclair, how can I help you?”

“I understand you’re handling the sale of the Bellandi collection,” I said. “I also know for a fact that one of your prospective buyers is not… the kind of man Mr. Bellandi would want owning those pieces.”

I heard the subtle shift in his breathing. “That’s a strong statement. And who could you possibly be referring to.”

“Max Archer.” My tone was calm but direct, the kind that didn’t leave room for small talk.

“Mr. Archer approached us several weeks ago.” There was the faint creak of a chair on the other end, the sound of a man settling in. “He’s a known figure in the art world. And you’re calling because…?”

“I have verifiable information that Max Archer isn’t buying for himself like he told you. He’s fronting a deal with investor funds he misrepresented and is planning to sell the collection at a very high price and keep most of the profit. He’s not interested in preserving its value, he just wants to make a massive cash out from this collection.”

Silence. Not defensive, not dismissive. Just a silence that made it clear he was weighing every word. “And what exactly are you proposing, Mr. Sinclair?”

“That you present me as a buyer instead,” I said. “I’ll match or exceed Archer’s offer, and I’ll keep the pieces as they are meant to be kept, in one place not parceled off. They’ll be displayed in my home. Permanently.”

I could almost hear the calculation happening on his end.

His voice remained even. “You do understand that we cannot simply swap one name for another based on accusation. How do we know you’re not seeking the collection for selfish reasons too?”

I smiled faintly, even though he couldn’t see it. “Because I have no need to leverage Bellandi’s legacy to make a profit. My name is not new to this industry, Mr. Armitage. Do your checks. You’ll find I’ve paid a fair price and above for every acquisition I’ve ever made. I don’t play with other people’s money, and I don’t burn my own reputation for a quick sale.”

“You’ll forgive me if I still need to verify,” he said carefully.

“By all means,” I replied. “But you should also verify Archer. If you do, you’ll see exactly why I’m making this call.”

There was another pause. I could hear the faint scratch of pen against paper, as though he was jotting notes. “And why now? Why not wait until the deal is complete and then make your move?”

“Because when Archer fails,” I said, my tone cooling, “he leaves damage in his wake. Investors burned, sellers disillusioned. I’m preventing that. You can tell Bellandi that directly.”

“Mr. Sinclair,” Armitage said, “I’ll take this to Mr. Bellandi. If he agrees to consider you as a buyer, I’ll be in touch.”

“You’ll want to be,” I said. “Because if you let Archer get this collection, you’ll spend the next year explaining why you sold it to a man who lied to your face.”“Of course,” I replied. “And if you need proof of Max’s intentions, I can provide it.”

We ended the call, and I was already moving to the next piece of the plan.

The investors.

I started with Peter Holt in Sydney. The time difference was in my favour and it was late evening for him, the hour when people’s guards dropped.

He picked up on the second ring. “Peter Holt.”

“Mr. Holt, this is Drew Sinclair. We haven’t met, but I believe you’ve invested in an art acquisition through Max Archer.”

Another pause. “Yes… that’s correct. Why?”

“Because you deserve to know the real value of what you’ve invested in, and what it’s worth compared to what you were told.”

The line went still. I didn’t let the silence linger too long.

“Max told you the Bellandi collection is worth less than half of its true market value. He’s buying it with your money and three other investors’ money, planning to resell it to a museum in Asia and return only a fraction of the profit. You’ll get something, yes, but not what you’re entitled to.”

He exhaled sharply. “Do you have proof of this?”

“I can get you proof,” I said. “And if you’re interested, I can also give you an alternative, one where you get your full share, and Max gets nothing.”

By the time I ended that call, I could feel the momentum building. Each conversation was a crack forming in the foundation Max thought was solid.

I was midway through my call with Wei Liang when there was a knock on my office door.

“Come in,” I called without looking up.

The door opened and Lila stepped inside. She had a folder in hand, but the moment she saw I was on a call, she hesitated.

“I can come back,” she said softly, starting to retreat.

“Stay,” I said, glancing up. “Sit.”

She closed the door and crossed the room, settling into the chair opposite me. I finished the call, lowering my voice but not hiding the words.

“Yes… exactly. Max Archer. That’s why I’m telling you before the deal closes. You deserve to know the man you’re trusting is planning to cut you out. I’ll send over the details. We can make sure he walks away with nothing.”

When I hung up, I could feel her eyes on me.

“That was about Max, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And it sounded like… it’s part of your plan to oust him.”

“Max is chasing a private collection in Italy,” I began. “The Bellandi collection. Rare, late 19th-century European works, irreplaceable. The kind of thing most collectors would kill for and the kind of thing Bellandi would only sell to someone worthy.

Max went in through a small gallery in London, claiming he represents a private group of investors. He told them the collection was worth less than half its true value. The plan is to buy it with their money, flip it to a museum in Asia for double or triple, and keep the difference.”

Her eyes widened. “So… the investors don’t know?”

“They don’t know the truth,” I said. “And once the deal goes through, they’ll get a fraction of what’s theirs. Max walks away with the rest. Clean on paper, dirty underneath.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “I didn’t think he could be… that dubious.”

“He’s worse,” I said flatly. “This isn’t just about business. It’s about using people until they’re no longer useful, then discarding them. And he thought you’d be easy to use too.”

I saw the flicker in her expression, the mix of surprise and something sharper. Fear.

I leaned forward, my voice lower now. “You don’t need to worry. He won’t be able to hurt you. By the time I’m done, Max Archer will wish he’d never set foot in this city, much less tried to sabotage my launch.”

She didn’t say anything at first, just studied me like she was trying to decide whether to believe the promise I’d just made.

Then she nodded once, slowly, and slid the folder she’d brought onto the desk. “Alright. Let’s get back to work.”

We turned to the papers, but my mind was already elsewhere.

I was thinking about Max, about the calls still left to make, the trap already closing in.

And I was thinking about the look in Lila’s eyes just now, trust mixed with fear.

Max had made one mistake too many.

And I was going to make sure that when he fell, he’d take Kimberley with him.