Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly.
Speaker 2: This episode is titled The Forgery, Part three Restoration.
Speaker 1: Handcuffs, sleeve marks like brushstrokes, temporary evidence of surrender. Right now,
watching Marcus being led away by the FBI, I'm thinking
about different kinds of Mars. The ones Alex left on
my skin in the restoration room, the one's paris left
on our souls. It was too easy, Alex says, his
hand possessive on my lower back as we watched the
police cars pull away. Marcus never surrenders.
Speaker 2: No.
Speaker 1: I lean into his touch. He orchestrates my phone buzzes
with a text from an unknown number. Beautiful performance. Now
for act two. Check your private email for tonight's script.
Alex reads over my shoulder, his body tensing another trap,
another masterpiece. I turn in his arms, coming back to
my studio to see what Marcus sent. His kiss is
the answer, deep and demanding. Against the galley's glass doors.
Anyone could see us, but that's rather the point. We're
still performing, still being watched. The drive to my studio
is charged with unfinished business, his hand on my thigh
as he drives my fingers tracing patterns on his wrist.
By the time we reach my private elevator, we're both
burning the email. He reminds me, as ikey in my code.
Can wait? I pull him into the elevator by his
tie first. I want to examine your technique. His hands
mapping my body as the elevator rises, my fingers working
his belt. Before we reach my floor, we barely make
it inside my studio before clothes start falling the security
cameras he manages between kisses disabled, I push him toward
my restoration table. I learned something about surveillance in Paris,
did you His laugh turns to a groan as I
sink to my knees. What else did you learn? Watch
me demonstrate? I take him apart with expert precision, every
stroke of my tongue a reminder of skills learned in Paris.
His hands tangle in my hair as I drive him
to the edge and back Olivia warning or plea, I'm
not sure sh I stand? Letting him lift me onto
the table. Let me show you my other talents. He
enters me in one smooth stroke, both of us beyond teasing,
beyond pretense, beyond everything except this moment of pure creation.
Tell me about Marcus, he demands, setting a punishing rhythm,
Tell me what he's really planning. Power i arch as
his angle deepens. Control the perfect, Oh God, the perfect
forgery of what of us? Later, catching our breath among
scattered art supplies, my laptop chimes the email we've been avoiding.
Alex reaches it first, still gloriously naked. His body tenses
as he reads What is it? I move behind him,
letting my breasts press against his back As I look
over his shoulder, surveillance photos from birth Lynn. My blood
runs cold. Berlin, the job that went wrong the night
someone died. Marcus wasn't in Berlin, I say. But even
as the words leave my mouth, I spot him in
the background of one photo, watching, always watching. No. Alex
turns to face me. But his protege was the one
who took the fall. Thomas. The name tastes like old
paint and older sins. They said he died in prison.
They lied. Alex hands me his phone. A new message
glows on the screen. Did you really think I'd leave
loose ends? Tonight? The Thorn Gallery? Time to complete the
Berlin masterpiece? Bring the girl tea it was all connected.
I sink into my chair, Paris, Berlin, now Marcus's perfect forgery.
Alex kneels before me, using us to create something bigger
than art, using us to create the perfect crime. I
meet his eyes, one that can never be traced back
to him, because we'll take the fall, unless, unless, unless
we create something he never expected. What's that the truth?
His smile curves against my mouth. Dangerous, medium, the most dangerous.
I stand, letting him watch as I begin to dress,
ready to paint with fire. Instead of answering, he pulls
me back for one more kiss, deep, desperate, full of
everything we haven't said. The thought gallery awaits, Thomas awaits,
and somewhere Marcus watches his masterpiece unfold. Let him watch.
This time, we're painting with blood. The Thorn Gallery at
night is all shadows and sharp edges, like memory, like regret.
You wore the black dress, Alex says, as we enter
through the service door. His fingers trace my spine through silk,
not the red one. Red was for Marcus's show. I
lean into his touch. Black is for revenge, and what
you're wearing underneath? Why don't you verify the authenticity yourself?
His hand slide lower, professional fingers finding the truth beneath
fabric in the darkness of the closed gallery. Our breath
mingles with the soft hum of climate control. A text
illuminates the shadow third floor, Private collection. Come alone. Thomas
always did have a flare for drama. I murmur against
Alex's throat, says the woman who left a perfect forgery
in the louver. Allegedly. I bite his earlobe gently, and
as I recall you are the one who disabled their
security system allegedly, his mouth finds mine, erasing professional distance.
We shouldn't not here, not now. But his hands remember
every curve, every secret, every way to make me surrender
to his expertise. His fingers trace the path between my
shoulder blades, mapping territory he'd claimed hours earlier in my studio.
Each touch carries memory intention need third floor, I remind him,
even as my hands find his tie. Five minutes he
walks me backward until I hit a display pedestal. I
need to examine the evidence thoroughly. The silk of my
dress whispers against marble. As he lifts me. His mouth
follows the neckline. Professional attention to every detail, tell me
about Berlin. He murmurs against my skin about Thomas.
Speaker 2: He was.
Speaker 1: I lose focus as his fingers slide higher. He was
Marcus's star, pupil before us, until until he fell in
love with an authenticator. My hands grip his shoulders as
pleasure builds. Until she discovered what he really was, what
happened to her, she died. Truth spills out between soft gasps.
The night of the heist, the night everything went wrong,
his hands still on my thigh. That's why you ran
in Paris. You knew what Marcus was capable of. I
knew what love costs in his world. I pull him closer,
needing his heat. What it would cost you if I stayed.
Instead of responding, he shows me exactly what I'd missed
in those ten years, apart his fingers, his mouth, his body,
remembering every lesson we'd learned together. When I come apart
in his arms, it's not just pleasure, its resurrection, recreation, restoration. Afterward,
straightening my dress in the gallery's darkened windows, I catch
Alex watching me. His reflection carries equal parts hunger and calculation.
Thomas is waiting, he says, re buttoning his shirt. Let him.
I turn running my fingers down his chest. He always
did hate being the student rather than the master. Another
text illuminates the darkness. Time's up, lovers, or should I
release the Berlin surveillance footage? We take the private elevator
to the third floor. Alex's hand rests on his concealed weapon,
while mine finds the knife strapped to my thigh. Some
habits never fade. The Private collection sits behind unmarked doors. Inside,
Thomas stands at a restoration table, looking exactly as he
did in Berlin. Dangerous, beautiful, broken, The prodigal pupils return.
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Though I hear you've
graduated to teaching rather than learning. Some lessons stick with you.
I move closer, letting him see what he lost, like
how to spot a fake? Do they? He gestures to
the painting on his table, Then tell me, Olivia, what
do you see? I examine the canvas. My breath catches
it's us that night in Berlin, the heist, the authenticator,
the moment everything changed. You were there. Alex's voice carries
realization the whole time I was everywhere. Thomas runs his
fingers across the canvas, every city, every con every intimate moment,
creating my own masterpiece using Marcus's techniques, I step closer,
or did you teach him? His laugh fills the room. Finally,
the star pupil sees the truth you created, Marcus. The
truth unfolds like a forged masterpiece, the whole operation. I
created everything. Thomas moves behind me, his breath stirring my hair.
The perfect mentor the perfect students, the perfect passion. Alex tenses,
But I hold up a hand. Let Thomas play his game,
Let him think he still has control. Berlin wasn't an accident,
I say, studying the painting the authenticator, her death a
necessary addition to the composition. Thomas's fingers trace my bare shoulder,
like Paris was meant to be. Until you two started improvising,
We ruined your masterpiece. Alex's voice carries steel beneath silk. No.
Thomas steps back, drawing a gun. You became it love, betrayal, redemption,
ten years of perfect dramatic tension, and now turn to
face him fully the grand finale. Now you're going to
help me complete my collection. He gestures to a row
of covered canvases, Every great crime preserved in oils, and passion,
starting with tonight, What's tonight? Alex moves closer, positioning himself.
Thomas's smile widens your last performance. The gun swings toward Alex.
I move without thinking, years of training taking over. My
knife finds Thomas's wrist. As Alex's fist connects with his jaw,
the gun fires, pain blossoms across my shoulder, and somewhere
in the darkness, a camera clicks. Everything happens in heartbeats,
in brushstrokes. Alex catches me before I hit the floor.
Thomas sprawls across his restoration table, blood mixing with oils,
and through the gallery windows. Camera flashes pierce the darkness. Isabella,
I manage through the pain. She's been documenting everything, more
than documenting. Thomas laughs, clutching his wrist where my knife struck.
She's been my finest curator, collecting every moment, every touch,
every secret. The FBI agent Alex's hands press against my
wound was never really FBI, The perfect forger. Thomas stands,
unsteady of identities rather than art. My phone buzzes. A
photo appears Alex and me in the gallery earlier, creating
our own masterpiece. Beneath it a message. The gallery surrounded.
Time to sign your work, Artists. You never wanted the paintings.
The room spins as I fight to stay conscious. You
wanted us our final performance, the ultimate piece. Thomas retrieves
his gun, star crossed lovers dying among priceless art poetry. Really,
but Alex is smiling that same smile from Paris when
he taught me about light and shadow, about seeing what
others miss. You forgot something, he says, pulling me closer.
Did I? We learned from the best. My fingers find
the knife at my thigh how to create the perfect forgery?
Of what of this? The lights explode as real FBI
agents burst through the doors. In the chaos, I see
Isabella's camera flash one last time, capturing the moment Thomas
realizes his masterpiece has become someone else's forgery. Hours later,
in the hospital, Alex's fingers trace patterns around my Bandaed's shoulder.
You knew. His voice carries exhaustion and admiration about Isabella,
about Thomas, I suspected. I shift against the starched sheets,
letting him support my weight. Since the money the brushwork
was his, not Marcus's, and you didn't tell me, because
because you're terrible at faking surprise. I turn my head
to find his mouth, and we needed his ego, his
obsession with documenting everything, evidence, his lips brush mine of
his entire operation. Hm, I let him take more of
my weight. Ten years of surveillance, every crime, every player,
every intimate moment. Those two. My good hand finds his tie,
pulling him closer, though some moments weren't documented. No, his
mouth traces a path down my neck like what like this?
I guide his hand beneath the hospital gown, showing him
exactly what the camera's missed, what they'll always miss, the
real masterpiece we're creating. His phone buzzes the bureau, wanting statements,
needing signatures. Let them wait, he murmurs against my skin.
I'm conducting a thorough investigation of what of how many
ways I can make you come apart without disturbing your shoulder?
Outside the city sparkles like fresh varnish on a masterpiece.
Tomorrow will bring questions, paperwork, explanations, But tonight belongs to us,
to this, to everything. We're finally ready to create together.
No forgeries, no performances, just pure, perfect truth.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of AI
Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media