Chapter 2: The Concert of Lies
The air in the Swiss Alps smelled of pine resin and impending snow. Seraphina stood on the stone steps of the chalet, her breath forming small, furious clouds in the crystalline air. The structure was all dark wood and vast windows, a monument to rustic wealth that felt utterly alien after the sterile glamour of her penthouse. She had told the driver to wait in the village below. This was a pilgrimage she had to make alone.
A woman answered the door. Not a housekeeper, as Seraphina had expected, but Celeste Ashford herself.
She was softer in person than in the grainy press photos Julian had kept. The auburn hair was a loose wave over one shoulder, not a staged performance. She wore a thick, cream-colored sweater that swallowed her frame, and her sea-green eyes held a politely puzzled warmth. “Can I help you?”
“Celeste Ashford,” Serephina said, her voice smooth as chilled vodka. “I hope I’m not intruding. My name is Seraphina Vance. I’m an admirer. A patron of the arts.”
“Vance.” Celeste’s brow furrowed slightly, then cleared. “The New York collector. I’ve read about your acquisitions. They’re… audacious.”
“I prefer ‘definitive.’ May I come in? I’ve traveled a long way to discuss a commission. A private one.”
The hesitation was brief, a musician’s natural caution with an unexpected rest. Then Celeste smiled, a genuine, unguarded curve of her lips that felt like a physical blow. “Of course. Forgive the mess. I’m between seasons, and my practice is my only r