“Yes,” I said. “That was the shell company Grant used for the shipping paperwork.”

“But look at the signature on the authorization form,” I added, turning the page.

It was a photocopy of the original contract I had made for my personal files.

There was a bold signature at the bottom written in thick, black fountain pen ink.

Adrian froze.

The color drained completely from his face.

He reached out and touched the paper, his index finger tracing the elegant cursive letters.

“No,” he whispered.

“Adrian?” I asked. “What is it? Whose signature is that?”

“It’s Julian,” he said.

His voice was flat and entirely devoid of emotion.

“Julian Vale,” he repeated. “My uncle.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Your uncle authorized the work?” I asked.

“He didn’t authorize restorations,” Adrian said, his jaw tightening until the muscle twitched. “He authorized the swap.”

The silence in the ruined studio became deafening.

“He was the one who gave Grant access to our family vault,” Adrian said.

“But why would he do that?” I asked. “Your family is incredibly wealthy.”