March 2, 2025

Perfect Forgery (Ep 1 of 4) - "The Original Sin"

Perfect Forgery (Ep 1 of 4) - "The Original Sin"

In Manhattan's elite art world, authenticator Olivia West's carefully constructed life begins to crack when security expert Alexander Reid arrives to investigate a forged Monet. She recognizes him as her former lover and partner in crime from Paris...

In Manhattan's elite art world, authenticator Olivia West's carefully constructed life begins to crack when security expert Alexander Reid arrives to investigate a forged Monet. She recognizes him as her former lover and partner in crime from Paris ten years ago, where they created perfect forgeries together before a betrayal tore them apart.

Their charged reunion ignites old passions as they discover the forged Monet is one they painted together. Between heated encounters in the restoration room and revelations about a larger conspiracy, Olivia must decide if she can trust the man who taught her about both art and desire.

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Caloroga Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This

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episode is titled The Forgery, Part one, The original Sin.

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Art like love is in the details, the slight hesitation

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in a brushstroke, the secret signature hidden in shadows, The

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way your breath catches when you recognize something or someone

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you never thought you'd see again. Right now, examining the

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money that will ruin everything. My breath catches twice, once

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for the painting, once for the man watching me examine it.

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Problem with the authentication, Miss West Isabella Thorne's voice carries

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across the private viewing room. She's nervous. She should be

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ten million in oil and canvas rests in my white

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gloved hands. No problem. I keep my voice steady, professional,

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like I'm not feeling his eyes on me, Like I

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don't recognize every brushstroke, just admiring the technique. Quite remarkable,

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isn't it. His voice hits me like expensive whiskey, like memory,

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like sin, the artist's attention to detail. I don't turn,

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don't acknowledge Alexander Reid's presence behind me, don't let my

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hands shake as they trace the frame. The detail is everything.

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I step back, letting him move closer, close enough that

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I smell his cologne, still Clive Christian number one. Some

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things never change, especially the ones most people miss. And

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what do you, Taiales? Are you seeing? Miss West? The

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way he says my name, like he's tasting it, like

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he remembers how his mouth felt forming different words against

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my skin in Paris, ten years ago, when we were

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different people, when we were artists of a different kind.

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The brush work in the lower left corner. I gesture

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with my gloved hand, The way the light plays across

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the water lilies, the artist's signature style. Interesting choice of words.

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He moves beside me, now, close enough that our arms

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almost touch, given that signatures can be forged, speaking from experience,

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mister Reid, his laugh is low, dangerous. I defer to

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your expertise in such matters. Isabella clears her throat. I'll

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leave you too, to complete the authentication. The opening starts

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in three hours. The door closes behind her. In the

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pristine quiet of the viewing room, the air charges with

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ten years of unfinished business. You're looking well, Olivia. His

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hand brushes mine as he reaches for the magnifying glass,

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still preferring Windsor and newteon oils. You're looking expensive, Alex.

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I turn to face him. Finally, he's aged, like fine art,

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more valuable with time, still preferring to hunt forgers, only

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the talented ones. His eyes hold mine, the ones who

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know how to make perfect copies of water lilies in

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Parisian studios. The memory hits like turpentine, sharp, intoxicating, dangerous.

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Ten years ago, Paris secret, he'd murmured, his body pressed

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against my back as he guided. My brush is in

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the light, how it breaks across the water like this.

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I'd let him move my hand, let him shape the strokes,

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let him teach me how to create perfection from pigment

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and desire perfect. His lips had found my neck just

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like that. We'd worked through the night, passion and paint

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mixing on our skin. By dawn, we'd created more than

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just a masterpiece. We'd created our own destruction. Present day,

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your technique has improved. His voice pulls me back. He's

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examining the painting, but his eyes keep finding me. The

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layering here, the texture almost perfect, almost. I move closer,

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letting my hip brush his as I lean in professional

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necessary show me. His hand covers mine on the magnifying glass,

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positioning it over the lower corner, here where the light

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meets shadow. Your signature, Tell my tell, but my pulse races.

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He's right, that intersection of light and dark. That's where

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I always sign my work. Not with a name, but

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with a technique one he taught me. You still blur

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the boundaries. His thumb strokes my wrist, just above my glove,

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between what's real and what's artistry, says the security expert

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with a history of helping forgers perfect their craft. His

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other hand finds my waist, turning me to face him.

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Only one forger, and how did that work out for you?

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Instead of answering, he kisses me hard, deep, full of

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decade old hunger and fresh danger. My back hits the

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viewing table as his hands find skin under my silk blouse.

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Tell me about the monnet, he demands between kisses, make me.

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His response is immediate, professional, one hand tangling in my

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hair while the other slides higher under silk. The brush

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strokes he prompts, his mouth hot on my throat. Tell

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me who painted them? You know who? I arch into

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his touch? You were there? Tell me anyway. His teeth

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graze my pulse point. Tell me how we spent three

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nights getting the light just right. Four nights my fingers

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find his shirt buttons. The fourth night we barely painted

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at all. No, his hand finds the zipper of my skirt.

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What were we doing instead? You remember? I let my

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head fall back as his fingers trace lace. You had

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me posed like one of Daigar's dancers. Neked. His voice

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roughens on that antique chaised lounge, studying form. I gasp

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as his fingers find their target, perfecting technique. Is that

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what we're doing now? He lifts me onto the viewing table,

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studying form. No, I wrap my legs around his waist.

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Now we're creating something new. What follows is pure artistry,

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his hands painting pleasure across my skin, my body arching

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like a masterpiece under his touch. He takes me on

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the viewing table, then against the gallery wall. Each thrust

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a question, each moan an answer. Tell me about the monette,

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he demands again, as pleasure builds. It's a forgery. I

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bite his shoulder to keep from screaming our forgery, And

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and someone knows. I come apart in his arms, Truth

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spilling like expensive paint someone's using it to set us

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both up. Later, straightening our clothes in the pristine gallery light,

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reality crashes back. Who else knew? He fixes his tie

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while I smooth my skirt, about Paris, about us, no one.

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I reapply my lipstick, watching him in the reflection. That

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was the point of forging the money, A private piece,

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never meant to be sold, yet here it is. He

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moves behind me, his hands settling on my hips, about

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to be unveiled at the biggest private showing of the season.

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Someone sending a message. I lean back against his chest,

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but to which one of us? Maybe both? His mouth

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finds my neck again. The question is why now, after

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ten years before I can answer, my phone buzzers a

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text from an unknown number. Beautiful performance. The passion in

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your brushwork is still unmatched. Can't wait to see what

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you create next. You have until the unveiling to figure

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out where the real Monee is. Otherwise everyone learns exactly

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how you perfected your technique. Attached is a photo Paris,

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ten years ago, Alex and me in that sun drenched studio,

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naked on the chaise lounge, surrounded by our beautiful crime. Well,

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his laugh is dark against my skin, answers one question,

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which is whether this is personal. His hands tightened possessively.

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Someone's been watching us for a very long time, and

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now they're forcing us to work together. Is that such

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a bad thing? His reflection smirks at me. We did

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create masterpieces together. We also destroyed each other. Did we

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he turns me to face him, or did we just

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leave the canvas unfinished? Another text buzzes, by the way,

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the security cameras in the viewing room make for fascinating footage.

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You always did love an audience, didn't you, Olivia. They're

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watching us now I show him the message let them.

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He kisses me hard and fast. We've always done our

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best work with proper motivation. The gallery lights flicker once,

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like a warning. In three hours, Manhattan's elite will flood

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these rooms, expecting to see a priceless monette. Instead, they

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might just witness a different kind of masterpiece. Two former

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lovers turned enemies, turned partners creating something far more dangerous

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than art, Ready to paint another masterpiece. His smile is

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pure sin with you, I pull him down for one

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more kiss. Always let the show begin.

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Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media Executive

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producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast

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may have been created with the assistance of AI

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Calaroga Shark Media