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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