The Deputy Director’s Grief: A $45 Million Museum Gala Scandal, a Cursed Pedestal, and a Father’s Fatal War Against His Ruthless Daughter in Boston
My voice felt impossibly thin in the suddenly silent gallery.
“No,” I said, my gaze locked on Chloe. “I will not fire Gabe. And Aunt Lavinia stays.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and solid, like the ancient obsidian pedestal itself. Chloe’s perfect smile vanished, replaced by a snarl that twisted her features. The air in the gallery, already thick with the metallic scent of ozone from the flickering lights, seemed to crackle.
“You fool,” she hissed, her eyes blazing. “You absolute, sentimental fool.”
Julian Croft, who had been hovering near Chloe, stepped forward, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He adjusted the cuff of his expensive suit, pulling out his phone.
“Arthur, think about this,” Julian said, his voice smooth, entirely too calm for the situation. “There are… consequences.”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. I had known Chloe for thirty years. I knew what her “consequences” meant.
“Gabe protected my aunt,” I stated, ignoring Julian. “He did his job.”
Gabe shifted beside me, his hand still on Aunt Lavinia’s wheelchair. Aunt Lavinia herself sat perfectly still, her knuckles white where they gripped the armrests, but her gaze was steady on her grand-niece.
Chloe took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling sharply under the silk of her gown. She spoke into the quiet, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“Consider this war, then, Daddy dearest.”
She made a sharp gesture with her hand, pulling her own phone from her evening bag. Her fingers flew across the screen with practiced speed. It was barely two seconds before she pressed it to her ear.
“It’s done,” she snapped into the receiver. “Freeze the accounts. All of them. Effective immediately.”
A chill, far colder than the ambient temperature in the gallery, snaked up my spine. It wasn’t just my imagination; the obsidian pedestal, which had been seeping a cold mist earlier, now visibly wept icy condensation that trickled down its dark, polished sides onto the marble floor.
Julian Croft nodded slowly, a knowing glint in his eyes.
“That would be the Dunsmore Museum’s operational endowment, I presume?” he asked Chloe, a thread of false concern in his tone. “The one with the $12 million?”
My stomach dropped. Chloe hadn’t just threatened. She had acted. And Julian knew exactly which account. The speed of it was shocking. It meant she had the legal infrastructure set up, ready to deploy.
Chloe met my gaze, a triumphant, cruel smile returning to her face.
“Consider it gone, Arthur,” she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Every last penny. The museum won’t be able to pay its light bill by tomorrow.”
The overhead gallery lights flickered again, as if on cue, bathing us in momentary darkness before returning to their dim, haunted glow.
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