THE LIE THAT WORE A RING - Chapter 48: Chapter 48

Three weeks later, the Carter Foundation announced a new exhibit titled Brushed Lines: Art in the Era of Divided Truth. It was a delicate title, politically neutral on the surface, but deeply intentional beneath. Ava had personally selected every artist—each one connected, knowingly or not, to the remnants of Craven Hall. Including, most critically, the anonymous donor whose work was linked to Marcus Kael.
Her name was Marin Kael.
Nicholas had been uneasy about it from the start. “We’re inviting danger into our own home again,” he’d warned.
But Elise had backed Ava. “That’s exactly how we force their hand. Let them come.”
The invitations were selective—sent to donors, art collectors, and a handful of influential insiders. It was Ava who signed the personal letter that went to Marin.
To her surprise, Marin accepted.
The exhibit was scheduled for a Friday evening, held in the West Wing of the gallery. Ava and Elise had ensured that security was discreet but highly present—new facial recognition at the doors, undercover guards dressed as curators, and encrypted scanning software for phones and comm devices. No one would slip in or out unseen.
But Ava knew Marcus wouldn’t risk walking through the main entrance.
They needed to lure him in.
Which meant giving him something he couldn’t resist.
That something was Marin.
Ava spent the day before the event reviewing every detail. The lighting, the order of the paintings, the curated statements posted beside each piece. She stood in front of Marin Kael’s painting—a minimalist work in charcoal and oil, depicting a woman standing in front of a fractured mirror.
Ava studied it for a long time.
“She knows more than she lets on,” Elise said quietly behind her. “She hasn’t spoken to the press in years, never attended a show. But she didn’t even hesitate when we invited her.”
“Maybe she wants to protect him,” Ava said. “Or maybe… she wants to see who he’s become.”
The next day arrived with a storm looming on the horizon. Thick gray clouds rolled across the city skyline, casting an eerie light over the Carter Foundation. By 6 p.m., the gallery was full—more than a hundred attendees filtering through the exhibit, sipping champagne and murmuring over the meaning behind each piece.
Marin Kael arrived precisely at 6:17.
She was tall and angular, with a quiet, focused expression and a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Her eyes scanned the room like someone entering a courtroom instead of an art show.
Ava greeted her personally.
“Thank you for coming,” she said warmly.
Marin’s handshake was cool. “I wasn’t sure I would.”
“But you did,” Ava said gently. “And I think that means something.”
Marin’s eyes flickered. “We’ll see.”
She drifted toward her painting, ignoring the murmurs around her. Ava kept her distance, watching as Marin stared at her own work for almost five minutes without moving.
Then, slowly, Marin pulled out her phone and tapped a single button.
That was the signal.
Claire, stationed in the control room, confirmed it through the comms. “Ping received. We’ve got a remote trace. He’s nearby—less than two blocks from the gallery. Probably in a car or rooftop surveillance.”
Nicholas’s voice came through next. “Keep calm. Let her lead him in.”
At 6:54 p.m., Ava saw him.
Marcus Kael entered through the service elevator, bypassing the main floor entirely. He wore a formal jacket and gloves, and carried nothing but a folded program guide. His face was calm, unreadable.
He didn’t approach Marin right away. Instead, he circled the room, pretending to admire other works.
But his eyes never left her.
Ava stepped in front of him deliberately. “Mr. Kael,” she said with the smooth confidence she had inherited from her father. “Enjoying the exhibit?”
He didn’t blink. “It’s impressive. Bold, even.”
“I find truth usually is,” she replied.
He tilted his head slightly. “Or it’s just curated well.”
A pause.
“I imagine you know who I am,” he said.
“I do,” she said. “And I imagine you know why this exhibit exists.”
His smile was faint. “To provoke. To draw out people like me.”
“Not to provoke,” Ava corrected. “To expose.”
In that moment, security signaled through the comms that the digital trap had worked—Marcus’s phone had synced to Marin’s signal, revealing layers of hidden communication routed through secure proxies and dummy accounts. The Halcyon Council’s internal chat logs were being captured in real-time.
“Your sister’s work is beautiful,” Ava said calmly.
Something flickered in his eyes. “She’s... innocent in all this.”
“Then why did you let her get involved?”
“She wanted to believe in something pure. I couldn’t give that to her anymore.”
He began to turn away, but Ava stepped closer.
“She still can,” she said. “But not while you're hiding behind her paintings.”
Marcus didn’t respond. Instead, he slipped a folded envelope into her palm, so discreetly it could have been a handshake.
Then he turned and walked straight out the side exit, disappearing into the approaching rain.
Ava unfolded the paper once he was gone.
Inside, handwritten:
> “You’ve won the battle. But Cyrus Renn never loses the war. Be ready.”
She looked up at Elise across the room, who had read the warning in her eyes before Ava even spoke.
The game had just escalated again.