The drive was tense and silent. Finn sat across from me, his features an unreadable mask. I tried to piece together what was happening. The Isla Campbell of six months ago was a predictable art curator in a small-town gallery. Now, apparently, that life involved bodyguards and cryptic danger. I risked a glance at Finn, my heart doing a funny little stutter at how very different he was.
Gone was the lanky boy with sun-streaked hair. The man across from me exuded strength and an air of quiet command. Beneath the expensive suit, I could see the lean, honed muscles of someone used to action, not analyzing paintings.
"Edinburgh," Finn said abruptly to the driver. "And take the scenic route."
The driver, a burly man who looked like he could wrestle a bear, merely grunted in acknowledgement.
Finn turned to me, his voice softening slightly. "Isla, there are some things I need to explain. Things about your work, your… reputation."
My stomach clenched. My reputation? What could he possibly be talking about? "Are you referring to the fact that my gallery exhibits contemporary artists? Some people in my village find it a bit shocking."
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No. I'm referring to the scandal that's been splashed across the tabloids for the past two weeks."
I stared at him in disbelief. "Scandal? What scandal?"
He hesitated, and for the first time that evening, I saw a flicker of something like regret in his eyes. "Isla… you were accused of stealing a priceless Van Gogh."
The words sucker-punched the air out of my lungs. "Stealing? That's… that's ridiculous!" My voice rose in a mix of outrage and bewilderment.
"Someone set you up," Finn said, his voice grim. "And whoever it was, they're very powerful. They want you ruined, and they might not stop until they succeed."
The car wound its way through the lush Scottish countryside, but I barely noticed the green hills and stone villages. My world was spinning off its axis. Someone had stolen a masterpiece…a Van Gogh...and somehow, I was the scapegoat. Panic mingled with a strange sense of unreality.
"But who...?" I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. "And why me?"
Finn's gaze was steady. "That's what I intend to find out."
The car glided to a halt in front of an imposing Georgian townhouse, its facade gleaming in the dying sunlight. As I stepped out, a sense of foreboding washed over me. Finn's grip on my elbow was reassuring, a silent promise of protection.
"This is a safe house," he said quietly. "At least for now."
Inside, the house was a study in understated luxury. Marble floors, plush carpets, and artwork that likely cost more than a small village.
"Make yourself at home," Finn's voice broke into my stunned silence. "I need to make some calls."
I nodded numbly, still trying to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. A few hours ago, my biggest concern was how to politely end a disastrous blind date. Now I was under suspicion of a major art heist, whisked away to a safe house by a ghost from my past turned professional bodyguard.
"Isla?" Finn stood in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. "We need to talk."
He led me to a plush sitting room and gestured towards a plush armchair. I sank into it, suddenly feeling bone-weary.
Finn sat across from me, his long legs crossed, the very image of controlled power. "I know this is a lot to take in. But it's real, Isla. And it's dangerous."
I stared at my trembling hands. "But I haven't done anything. How could someone frame me like this?"
"There are a lot of possibilities," Finn said, his voice low. "The art world is cutthroat in ways you may not realize. Rivalries, jealousy, millions of dollars at stake… It attracts some unsavory characters."
"But why me, specifically?" I asked, my voice edged with desperation. "I'm just a small-town curator."
Finn hesitated. Something flickered in his eyes, something I couldn't decipher.
"Isla, there's something about your past you haven't told me."
A chill ran down my spine. My past… what could anyone possibly use against me? My mouth went dry, but it was clear Finn wouldn't back down.
"It's not important," I blurted, hoping to deflect.
"Isla," he said, his tone laced with a hint of steel. "Whatever it is, you need to trust me if I'm going to help you."
And just like that, a dam seemed to break. Tears filled my eyes, the words tumbling out in a rush. A childhood accident, a hidden shame, the reason Finn had left all those years ago... I laid it all bare, my voice cracking with the weight of old pain.
When I finished, silence hung in the air, heavy and fragile.
When I finished, the silence stretched between us, fragile and heavy. I was vaguely aware of wiping at the stubborn tears threatening to spill over. I hadn't spoken of this in years, not to another living soul. To pour it out to Finn of all people, the boy I'd adored, the man he'd become…it felt simultaneously cathartic and devastatingly vulnerable.
Finn rose, his movements deliberate. He crossed the room and knelt beside my chair, taking my hands in his. The warmth of his grip sent a jolt through me, a shocking contrast to the icy chasm I'd felt widening between us all these years.
"Isla," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I never knew. I'm so sorry."
The apology was unexpected, hitting me harder than any accusation. "Sorry you left?" I choked out, a flicker of my old anger sparking.
He shook his head. "Sorry for what you went through. Sorry I wasn't there when you needed someone."
A wave of complex emotions washed over me. Resentment, yes, but also a sliver of warmth. It seemed Finn MacGregor wasn't completely made of ice after all.
"There's more," he continued, his eyes locked with mine. "You didn't just disappear from my life by chance. My family…we were forced to leave."
The air thickened between us. "Forced? Why?"
"My father was in a business deal. Things went wrong. He owed very dangerous people a great deal of money." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration warring with a hint of self-reproach. "He took the money and ran, and they wouldn't have stopped until they found us. We couldn't risk staying, not even for a goodbye."
My jaw dropped in shock. This was a completely different narrative from the whispers of abandonment I'd clung to all these years.
"But why didn't you tell me?" The hurt bubbled up again.
"Because I'm here now." His voice was firm, holding an echo of that fierce protectiveness I remembered from our childhood. "And this... this mess you're in, it might be connected. Whoever set you up might know about my father, about the people he owed. They might be trying to lure me out."
My mind churned, connecting the pieces. If this wasn't random, if it was tied to Finn and his past… did that mean my problems were even bigger than I'd feared?
Yet, the prospect ignited a strange spark of determination. "So what do we do? Just hide here forever?"
Finn's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Not a chance. We turn the tables. We find out who's behind this, and we make them pay."
A flicker of excitement ignited amidst the fear. Finn's words, his raw determination, echoed a defiant spirit I didn't know I possessed. Suddenly, being a passive victim seemed far less appealing than fighting back.
"How?" My voice was stronger, the despair of moments earlier receding. "Where do we even begin?"
Finn stood, a new energy thrumming through him. "First, we need information. About the theft, the tabloids, any connections to you they might be exploiting." He strode towards a sleek chrome and leather desk, the image of a man taking control. "We turn this place into our command center."
Over the next few hours, a whirlwind of activity replaced the air of heavy silence. Finn was on the phone, his voice a steady stream of clipped questions and assertive demands. With practiced ease, he turned the luxurious sitting room into a hub of investigation.
He pulled up news articles on a laptop, financial records, details about the stolen Van Gogh, and even grainy paparazzi shots of me leaving my gallery. My quiet life, usually concerned with exhibition dates and art history lectures, was now laid bare, dissected under the harsh glare of scandal.
"Look at this." Finn's sharp intake of breath drew my attention to the screen. It was an article about the upcoming Edinburgh Art & Antiquities Fair, one of the most prestigious events in the country. I was listed as a moderator for a panel discussion.
"This was announced weeks ago," I said, confused. "What's the significance?"
Finn zoomed in on the list of panelists. At the bottom, a name made my stomach churn: Alexander Grayson.
"Grayson is a ruthless, old-school art dealer. He and I know each other… professionally," Finn said, his voice laced with distaste. "He's got a reputation for playing dirty."
"Do you think…" The words stuck in my throat. Do you think he could have framed me?
"It's possible," he said, a muscle flexing in his jaw. "But there's still so much we don't know."
As the night deepened, the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen, mirroring the mounting unease settling within me. It was one thing to have a vague enemy who lurked behind accusations and scandalous headlines. It was quite another to realize they might be someone flesh and blood, someone from my world, who I might have to confront very soon.
"Finn?" My voice was small in the dimly lit room. "What happens if we find out who did this? What if they really are… dangerous?"
He turned, his eyes catching the moonlight. "Then," he said simply, "we get dangerous right back."