Chapter 5

Elias' POV

The auction house felt quieter than usual Or maybe I was the one who saw it that way. I stood at my workbench, carefully brushing dust from the edge of a seventeenth-century manuscript while trying very hard not to think about the man who had walked into my workspace yesterday and turned an ordinary afternoon into something I still couldn't explain.

"You've been staring at that page for the longest time now."

Mrs. Holloway's amused voice pulled me back to the present. I looked up and found her smiling at me from the next workbench. She had worked at the auction house longer than anyone else, and despite insisting she was close to retirement every year, she never seemed any closer to leaving.

"I have not," I said.

She shook her head, then set down the antique frame she had been cleaning and folded her arms.

"Yesterday's client?"

I hesitated for only a second before nodding. "He wasn't exactly easy to please."

Mrs. Holloway chuckled softly. "One difficult client doesn't erase years of excellent work."

I looked at my hands briefly. "I know."

I looked back at her. "And yet you're still thinking about him."

I smiled, though it felt forced. "I'm just thinking about how to make sure yesterday doesn't happen again."

She studied me for a moment before patting my shoulder. "Good. That's the right lesson to learn."

I watched her return to her work. If only it were that simple.

It wasn't the complaint that bothered me. Clients complained all the time but It was the way he'd looked at me.

Like I disgusted him. And I can't seem to place my head around the reason why a total stranger would look at me like that. 

I shook the thought away and reached for another document.

Work first. Everything else later.

My phone buzzed on the table. The reception desk.

"Elias?"

I held my phone tightly. "Yes?"

Her voice was cool. "Mr. Moretti is here again."

My hand froze halfway to the document. "What?...Already?"

"Yes and he specifically requested you."

I exhales. Why?

"I'll be there." I managed.

The call ended.

For a long moment, I simply stood there. Yesterday hadn't been enough? I glanced down at my tie, straightened it out of habit, and took a slow breath.

Whatever today's problem was, I'd deal with it the same way I dealt with everything else. Professionally.

---

The reception hall looked exactly as it had yesterday. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows.

Collectors wandered between display cases and staff moved quietly from one department to another.

Standing near the entrance was Damon Moretti in dark suit and a straight posture. Hands resting loosely behind his back.

He looked less like a visitor and more like someone inspecting property he already owned. When he noticed me approaching, his expression didn't change.

"Good morning, Mr. Moretti." 

His eyes swept over me in one look. "Mr. Vance."

His voice was as calm as ever.

"I understand you brought another item." I said.

He nodded once. Marco, the man standing beside him, stepped forward and placed a carefully wrapped package on the counter.

I carefully removed the protective cloth. Inside lay an old leather-bound ledger. The cover had faded with age, but the craftsmanship remained exceptional.

"The records of one of our family's former shipping companies," Damon said. "I intend to donate it to a museum after it's authenticated and preserved."

I nodded. "We'll examine its condition and prepare a restoration report."

He watched me for a second. "You don't seem surprised to see me."

I blinked. "Uh... actually I didn't expect you back so soon."

He folded his arm and raised a brow. "But you don't mind?"

I met his eyes. "You're a client." Nothing more. Nothing less.

Something unreadable crossed his face before disappearing just as quickly. "I'll leave it in your hands then."

I nodded. "I'll contact you once the examination is complete." He gave a slight nod back.

For some reason, neither of us moved and an awkward silence settled between us. I looked back at the ledger first.

"If you'll excuse me, I'd like to begin while the condition is still stable."

"Of course."

He clasped his hands to the back. "You can come if you want to." I said, though I didn't know why.

He just stared at me and said nothing so I thought he wasn't interested in coming along. I carried the ledger into the restoration room. A few moments later he followed. "I thought clients weren't usually allowed back here," he said.

"They aren't."

Damon glanced around the room before looking at me again.

"Then why are you making an exception?"

I adjusted the ledger on the table.

"I thought you might want to see the authentication process."

His gaze lingered on me for a moment. "Hmm. Okay"

"Please don't touch anything." I said and turned away from him. I placed the ledger on the table and carefully opened the first page.

The paper had yellowed beautifully with age. Despite myself, I smiled.

"I like old records."

Damon's eyes shifted from the ledger to me.

"Why?"

I gently brushed dust from the page. "Because people disappear."

My fingers paused over the faded ink. "But records stay."

A faint crease appeared between his brows. "They can be forged."

I looked up and met his eyes. "They can."

A brief silence settled between us before I closed the ledger halfway. "But paper doesn't choose to lie."

His expression remained unreadable. I held his gaze for another second. "Only people do."

 Damon didn't answer immediately. His eyes stayed on me a little longer than they should have, as though my words had struck something within him.

---

Nearly an hour passed before he finally prepared to leave. I walked him toward the entrance.

Another client arrived at the same time, an impatient middle-aged businessman who had argued with reception several times before. As he brushed past me, his shoulder struck mine harder than necessary and the folder slipped from my hands. Papers scattered across the floor and he didn't even stop.

Instead, he muttered just loudly enough for me to hear. "People like you shouldn't be trusted with priceless history."

I looked down and slowly gathered the papers. "It's alright," I told the receptionist before she could apologize. "It was an accident."

The man laughed quietly and disappeared into another gallery. When I looked toward the entrance again, Damon was already gone.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Maybe, that strange chapter of my life was finally over.

---

The workday ended later than usual. Most of the staff had already gone home. Only the restoration room remained lit.

I returned to the anonymous collection that had arrived several weeks earlier. The document was nothing especially remarkable. Or so I'd thought.

I carefully separated two pages that had fused together over time and something slipped free. A folded piece of paper drifted onto the table.

I frowned.

I didn't remember seeing it before. The paper was brittle with age. I unfolded it carefully.

Only one sentence had been written across it.

>> If this reaches the right hands, the truth still has a chance.

I stared at the words. It held no signature or writer name. I turned the paper over and it was blank.

Just as I was about to set it aside, something caught my eye. A faded symbol. It was tiny and barely visible in one corner.

My fingers tightened around the paper. I knew that symbol. I'd seen it only once before inside my father's pocket watch.

A chill ran through me.

For the first time, I no longer believed the message hidden inside that watch had been meaningless.