March 15, 2025

Perfect Forgery (Ep 3 of 4) - "Restoration"

Perfect Forgery (Ep 3 of 4) - "Restoration"

After Marcus's arrest, Olivia and Alex discover they've been part of a larger manipulation orchestrated by Thomas, Marcus's original protégé. Between increasingly intimate encounters that deepen their trust, they learn the truth about a deadly...

After Marcus's arrest, Olivia and Alex discover they've been part of a larger manipulation orchestrated by Thomas, Marcus's original protégé. Between increasingly intimate encounters that deepen their trust, they learn the truth about a deadly incident in Berlin and Thomas's obsession with documenting their every move. Their investigation leads to passionate revelations and a violent confrontation that forces them to choose between preserving their past or protecting their future.

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WEBVTT

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Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly.

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This episode is titled The Forgery, Part three Restoration.

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Handcuffs, sleeve marks like brushstrokes, temporary evidence of surrender. Right now,

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watching Marcus being led away by the FBI, I'm thinking

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about different kinds of Mars. The ones Alex left on

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my skin in the restoration room, the one's paris left

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on our souls. It was too easy, Alex says, his

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hand possessive on my lower back as we watched the

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police cars pull away. Marcus never surrenders.

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No.

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I lean into his touch. He orchestrates my phone buzzes

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with a text from an unknown number. Beautiful performance. Now

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for act two. Check your private email for tonight's script.

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Alex reads over my shoulder, his body tensing another trap,

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another masterpiece. I turn in his arms, coming back to

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my studio to see what Marcus sent. His kiss is

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the answer, deep and demanding. Against the galley's glass doors.

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Anyone could see us, but that's rather the point. We're

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still performing, still being watched. The drive to my studio

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is charged with unfinished business, his hand on my thigh

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as he drives my fingers tracing patterns on his wrist.

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By the time we reach my private elevator, we're both

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burning the email. He reminds me, as ikey in my code.

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Can wait? I pull him into the elevator by his

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tie first. I want to examine your technique. His hands

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mapping my body as the elevator rises, my fingers working

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his belt. Before we reach my floor, we barely make

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it inside my studio before clothes start falling the security

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cameras he manages between kisses disabled, I push him toward

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my restoration table. I learned something about surveillance in Paris,

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did you His laugh turns to a groan as I

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sink to my knees. What else did you learn? Watch

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me demonstrate? I take him apart with expert precision, every

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stroke of my tongue a reminder of skills learned in Paris.

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His hands tangle in my hair as I drive him

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to the edge and back Olivia warning or plea, I'm

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not sure sh I stand? Letting him lift me onto

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the table. Let me show you my other talents. He

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enters me in one smooth stroke, both of us beyond teasing,

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beyond pretense, beyond everything except this moment of pure creation.

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Tell me about Marcus, he demands, setting a punishing rhythm,

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Tell me what he's really planning. Power i arch as

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his angle deepens. Control the perfect, Oh God, the perfect

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forgery of what of us? Later, catching our breath among

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scattered art supplies, my laptop chimes the email we've been avoiding.

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Alex reaches it first, still gloriously naked. His body tenses

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as he reads What is it? I move behind him,

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letting my breasts press against his back As I look

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over his shoulder, surveillance photos from birth Lynn. My blood

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runs cold. Berlin, the job that went wrong the night

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someone died. Marcus wasn't in Berlin, I say. But even

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as the words leave my mouth, I spot him in

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the background of one photo, watching, always watching. No. Alex

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turns to face me. But his protege was the one

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who took the fall. Thomas. The name tastes like old

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paint and older sins. They said he died in prison.

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They lied. Alex hands me his phone. A new message

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glows on the screen. Did you really think I'd leave

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loose ends? Tonight? The Thorn Gallery? Time to complete the

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Berlin masterpiece? Bring the girl tea it was all connected.

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I sink into my chair, Paris, Berlin, now Marcus's perfect forgery.

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Alex kneels before me, using us to create something bigger

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than art, using us to create the perfect crime. I

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meet his eyes, one that can never be traced back

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to him, because we'll take the fall, unless, unless, unless

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we create something he never expected. What's that the truth?

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His smile curves against my mouth. Dangerous, medium, the most dangerous.

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I stand, letting him watch as I begin to dress,

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ready to paint with fire. Instead of answering, he pulls

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me back for one more kiss, deep, desperate, full of

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everything we haven't said. The thought gallery awaits, Thomas awaits,

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and somewhere Marcus watches his masterpiece unfold. Let him watch.

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This time, we're painting with blood. The Thorn Gallery at

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night is all shadows and sharp edges, like memory, like regret.

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You wore the black dress, Alex says, as we enter

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through the service door. His fingers trace my spine through silk,

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not the red one. Red was for Marcus's show. I

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lean into his touch. Black is for revenge, and what

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you're wearing underneath? Why don't you verify the authenticity yourself?

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His hand slide lower, professional fingers finding the truth beneath

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fabric in the darkness of the closed gallery. Our breath

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mingles with the soft hum of climate control. A text

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illuminates the shadow third floor, Private collection. Come alone. Thomas

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always did have a flare for drama. I murmur against

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Alex's throat, says the woman who left a perfect forgery

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in the louver. Allegedly. I bite his earlobe gently, and

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as I recall you are the one who disabled their

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security system allegedly, his mouth finds mine, erasing professional distance.

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We shouldn't not here, not now. But his hands remember

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every curve, every secret, every way to make me surrender

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to his expertise. His fingers trace the path between my

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shoulder blades, mapping territory he'd claimed hours earlier in my studio.

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Each touch carries memory intention need third floor, I remind him,

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even as my hands find his tie. Five minutes he

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walks me backward until I hit a display pedestal. I

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need to examine the evidence thoroughly. The silk of my

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dress whispers against marble. As he lifts me. His mouth

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follows the neckline. Professional attention to every detail, tell me

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about Berlin. He murmurs against my skin about Thomas.

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He was.

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I lose focus as his fingers slide higher. He was

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Marcus's star, pupil before us, until until he fell in

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love with an authenticator. My hands grip his shoulders as

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pleasure builds. Until she discovered what he really was, what

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happened to her, she died. Truth spills out between soft gasps.

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The night of the heist, the night everything went wrong,

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his hands still on my thigh. That's why you ran

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in Paris. You knew what Marcus was capable of. I

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knew what love costs in his world. I pull him closer,

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needing his heat. What it would cost you if I stayed.

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Instead of responding, he shows me exactly what I'd missed

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in those ten years, apart his fingers, his mouth, his body,

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remembering every lesson we'd learned together. When I come apart

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in his arms, it's not just pleasure, its resurrection, recreation, restoration. Afterward,

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straightening my dress in the gallery's darkened windows, I catch

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Alex watching me. His reflection carries equal parts hunger and calculation.

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Thomas is waiting, he says, re buttoning his shirt. Let him.

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I turn running my fingers down his chest. He always

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did hate being the student rather than the master. Another

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text illuminates the darkness. Time's up, lovers, or should I

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release the Berlin surveillance footage? We take the private elevator

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to the third floor. Alex's hand rests on his concealed weapon,

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while mine finds the knife strapped to my thigh. Some

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habits never fade. The Private collection sits behind unmarked doors. Inside,

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Thomas stands at a restoration table, looking exactly as he

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did in Berlin. Dangerous, beautiful, broken, The prodigal pupils return.

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His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Though I hear you've

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graduated to teaching rather than learning. Some lessons stick with you.

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I move closer, letting him see what he lost, like

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how to spot a fake? Do they? He gestures to

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the painting on his table, Then tell me, Olivia, what

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do you see? I examine the canvas. My breath catches

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it's us that night in Berlin, the heist, the authenticator,

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the moment everything changed. You were there. Alex's voice carries

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realization the whole time I was everywhere. Thomas runs his

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fingers across the canvas, every city, every con every intimate moment,

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creating my own masterpiece using Marcus's techniques, I step closer,

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or did you teach him? His laugh fills the room. Finally,

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the star pupil sees the truth you created, Marcus. The

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truth unfolds like a forged masterpiece, the whole operation. I

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created everything. Thomas moves behind me, his breath stirring my hair.

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The perfect mentor the perfect students, the perfect passion. Alex tenses,

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But I hold up a hand. Let Thomas play his game,

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Let him think he still has control. Berlin wasn't an accident,

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I say, studying the painting the authenticator, her death a

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necessary addition to the composition. Thomas's fingers trace my bare shoulder,

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like Paris was meant to be. Until you two started improvising,

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We ruined your masterpiece. Alex's voice carries steel beneath silk. No.

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Thomas steps back, drawing a gun. You became it love, betrayal, redemption,

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ten years of perfect dramatic tension, and now turn to

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face him fully the grand finale. Now you're going to

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help me complete my collection. He gestures to a row

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of covered canvases, Every great crime preserved in oils, and passion,

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starting with tonight, What's tonight? Alex moves closer, positioning himself.

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Thomas's smile widens your last performance. The gun swings toward Alex.

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I move without thinking, years of training taking over. My

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knife finds Thomas's wrist. As Alex's fist connects with his jaw,

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the gun fires, pain blossoms across my shoulder, and somewhere

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in the darkness, a camera clicks. Everything happens in heartbeats,

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in brushstrokes. Alex catches me before I hit the floor.

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Thomas sprawls across his restoration table, blood mixing with oils,

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and through the gallery windows. Camera flashes pierce the darkness. Isabella,

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I manage through the pain. She's been documenting everything, more

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than documenting. Thomas laughs, clutching his wrist where my knife struck.

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She's been my finest curator, collecting every moment, every touch,

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every secret. The FBI agent Alex's hands press against my

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wound was never really FBI, The perfect forger. Thomas stands,

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unsteady of identities rather than art. My phone buzzes. A

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photo appears Alex and me in the gallery earlier, creating

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our own masterpiece. Beneath it a message. The gallery surrounded.

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Time to sign your work, Artists. You never wanted the paintings.

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The room spins as I fight to stay conscious. You

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wanted us our final performance, the ultimate piece. Thomas retrieves

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his gun, star crossed lovers dying among priceless art poetry. Really,

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but Alex is smiling that same smile from Paris when

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he taught me about light and shadow, about seeing what

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others miss. You forgot something, he says, pulling me closer.

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Did I? We learned from the best. My fingers find

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the knife at my thigh how to create the perfect forgery?

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Of what of this? The lights explode as real FBI

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agents burst through the doors. In the chaos, I see

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Isabella's camera flash one last time, capturing the moment Thomas

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realizes his masterpiece has become someone else's forgery. Hours later,

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in the hospital, Alex's fingers trace patterns around my Bandaed's shoulder.

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You knew. His voice carries exhaustion and admiration about Isabella,

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about Thomas, I suspected. I shift against the starched sheets,

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letting him support my weight. Since the money the brushwork

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was his, not Marcus's, and you didn't tell me, because

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because you're terrible at faking surprise. I turn my head

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to find his mouth, and we needed his ego, his

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obsession with documenting everything, evidence, his lips brush mine of

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his entire operation. Hm, I let him take more of

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my weight. Ten years of surveillance, every crime, every player,

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every intimate moment. Those two. My good hand finds his tie,

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pulling him closer, though some moments weren't documented. No, his

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mouth traces a path down my neck like what like this?

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I guide his hand beneath the hospital gown, showing him

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exactly what the camera's missed, what they'll always miss, the

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real masterpiece we're creating. His phone buzzes the bureau, wanting statements,

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needing signatures. Let them wait, he murmurs against my skin.

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I'm conducting a thorough investigation of what of how many

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ways I can make you come apart without disturbing your shoulder?

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Outside the city sparkles like fresh varnish on a masterpiece.

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Tomorrow will bring questions, paperwork, explanations, But tonight belongs to us,

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to this, to everything. We're finally ready to create together.

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No forgeries, no performances, just pure, perfect truth.

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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