A Rival Appears

After their visit to the Louvre's Restoration Studio, Eleanor and Oliver couldn't shake the feeling that Victor DuPont wasn't just another curious collector.

At first, it seemed like a coincidence when Eleanor received a message later that evening.

Victor: I hope you'll consider my offer. People spend years searching for lost works of art. You may find it's better to share your discoveries rather than keep them to yourself.

She frowned at the text, resisting the urge to reply.

The next day, Oliver called her. His voice was tense.

"You won't believe this," he said. "Victor came to my apartment." Eleanor's stomach tightened. "What? How?"

"No idea. He just showed up. Said he wanted to 'continue our discussion' and offered to fund any research we needed. I told him I wasn't interested, and he just smiled like he knew something I didn't." Eleanor's unease grew.

That evening, while staying at her mother's house in Luxembourg, she noticed a familiar black car parked near the square. At first, she brushed it off. But then, she saw Victor himself, standing near a café across the street, watching.

She stepped away from the window, her pulse quickening. This wasn't just interest. He was tracking them.

The next morning, Eleanor and Oliver met at a quiet library café, both unsettled by Victor's persistence.

"This isn't normal," Eleanor said, stirring her coffee. "Showing up at your place? Finding me here?"

Oliver nodded. "I looked into him last night. He's not just an art collector. He's a private dealer, known for acquiring 'difficult' pieces. Some of his purchases? They've disappeared from public records."

Eleanor's eyes widened. "You think he deals in stolen art?"

Oliver sighed. "If Moreau's lost painting is real, it could be worth millions. People like Victor don't just collect art, they hunt for it. And if we're getting close…"

"He's making sure he stays ahead of us," Eleanor finished.

They exchanged a look.

Victor DuPont wasn't just watching them. He was waiting for them to find something he couldn't.

Victor DuPont wasn't a man who liked being ignored. At first, his approach toward Oliver remained polite, if not insistent. He would appear unexpectedly, outside Oliver's apartment, at a café near the library, or even in the museum's archives. Each time, he would start the conversation the same way.

"You're wasting time chasing shadows," he'd say smoothly. "Why not let someone with the right resources handle this?"

When Oliver refused to sell him any information, Victor's patience thinned.

One evening, as Oliver walked home from the museum archives, Victor was waiting by the entrance of his building, leaning casually against a sleek black car.

"You should reconsider, Oliver." His voice was calm, but the underlying threat was clear. "I admire your passion, I really do. But people who chase things that should stay buried often find themselves… in difficult situations."

Oliver clenched his jaw. "Is that a threat?"

Victor smirked. "Just friendly advice."

Victor took a step closer, lowering his voice. "You know, it's funny," he mused, watching Oliver carefully. "Everyone assumes Adrian Moreau was some tragic artist, hiding a masterpiece for love. But have you ever wondered why he had to hide it?"

Oliver didn't respond, but Victor's smirk widened.

"Because Isabelle betrayed him."

Oliver's heart pounded. "What do you mean?"

Victor tilted his head, studying him. "You think Moreau hid that painting out of devotion? No. He hid it because he was running. Because the woman he loved wasn't who he thought she was."

Oliver's mind raced. Could Victor be bluffing? Or had he uncovered something they hadn't?

"Tell me what you know," Oliver demanded.

Victor chuckled. "Ah, but that's not how this works. Everything has a price." He pulled out a small envelope and placed it in Oliver's hand.

Oliver opened it, expecting documents. Instead, he found a check. Blank.

"Fill in the amount," Victor said smoothly. "I'm a reasonable man. I'll buy whatever information you have. Save yourself the trouble."

Oliver looked up, meeting his cold blue gaze.

"You think I'd sell history?"

Victor sighed, stepping back. "History belongs to the highest bidder, my friend." He slid into his car, rolling down the window before adding one final warning.

"You don't want to be on the wrong side of this."

The car pulled away, leaving Oliver standing there, his grip tightening around the envelope.

Victor wasn't just after the painting. He knew more than he was letting on.

And if Isabelle had really betrayed Adrian Moreau, everything they thought they knew about this mystery was about to change.

Eleanor's mother was not the type to panic. She had spent years raising Eleanor on her own, dealing with life's unpredictability with the sharpness of a woman who had seen too much. But when she noticed Victor lingering around their neighborhood, watching from a distance, she knew something was wrong.

"You need to stop this," she told Eleanor, her voice firm as she set a cup of tea in front of her.

Eleanor sighed. "Mom, we're not stopping. We're close."

Her mother shook her head. "Then at least hide. You think a man like that plays fair? If you won't go to the police, then disappear for a while. Give him nothing to follow."

Eleanor exchanged a look with Oliver, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, arms crossed. He didn't argue. He knew Eleanor wouldn't report Victor, but staying visible was making them easy targets.

So, they packed their bags and left before sunrise.

The motel was small, old-fashioned, the kind of place no one asked questions. The neon sign flickered as they checked in under false names, using cash instead of cards.

Inside the room, the atmosphere was heavy with exhaustion. The weight of the past few days, Victor's threats, the discovery of the hidden painting mark, the mystery of Isabelle's betrayal, pressed down on them.

Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples. "I still don't understand why Victor is so desperate to control this."

Oliver, sitting across from her, sighed. "Because he knows more than he's letting on. And if Isabelle really betrayed Moreau, then this painting isn't just valuable, it's dangerous." A silence settled between them.

For the first time in a long time, Eleanor really looked at Oliver.

Not as the historian obsessed with dusty records. Not as the skeptic who had doubted her adventure. But as the man who had been by her side through all of it. Who had put himself at risk to uncover the truth.

The dim motel light cast shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the crease in his brow. He looked tired but strong, steady in a way that made her stomach flutter.

He caught her staring. "What?"

She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Nothing."

He smirked. "You're a terrible liar, Sinclair."

She let out a breath, something warm blooming in her chest. Despite everything, the danger, the uncertainty, this was the first moment of calm they'd had in days.

And for the first time, Eleanor wondered if maybe this journey hadn't just led her to a mystery but to him.

The motel room became their temporary war room. For the next couple of days, Eleanor and Oliver laid out every piece of evidence they had, the letters, the map, the photographs of the hidden crescent moon mark on the painting. Every time they thought they had figured something out, another question surfaced.

Eleanor sat cross-legged on the bed, flipping through pages of notes, while Oliver leaned over the small motel desk, frowning at the map.

"There has to be something we missed," Eleanor muttered.

Oliver exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Maybe Victor was right about one thing. Isabelle wasn't just some lover. If she really betrayed Adrian, then this wasn't just a secret romance. It was something bigger."

Eleanor tapped her fingers against her knee, thinking. Then, she picked up the second letter they had found at the fountain.

"The air smells of salt, and the bells ring at dusk."

She sat up straighter. "Wait. Salt and bells."

Oliver looked up. "What?"

She grabbed a travel guidebook from her bag and flipped through it. "That description, it could be anywhere. But if we think about a place Adrian Moreau could have traveled to in the 19th century, a place where Isabelle might have been…"

She stopped on a page and turned the book toward him.

Venice.

A city surrounded by water, where the salt air drifts through the canals and the church bells ring at sunset.

Oliver stared at the page, then back at her. "You think that's it?"

Eleanor nodded, excitement growing. "Moreau wouldn't have written it that way unless it meant something to them. What if this was the last place they met? Or where he hid the painting?"

Oliver leaned back in his chair, exhaling. Then, he gave a small, reluctant smile. "Guess we're going to Venice."

But as they packed up their things, a dark thought lingered in Eleanor's mind.

If they had figured it out, how long before Victor did too?