Speaker 1: Caloroga Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
episode is titled The Forgery, Part one, The original Sin.
Speaker 2: Art like love is in the details, the slight hesitation
in a brushstroke, the secret signature hidden in shadows, The
way your breath catches when you recognize something or someone
you never thought you'd see again. Right now, examining the
money that will ruin everything. My breath catches twice, once
for the painting, once for the man watching me examine it.
Problem with the authentication, Miss West Isabella Thorne's voice carries
across the private viewing room. She's nervous. She should be
ten million in oil and canvas rests in my white
gloved hands. No problem. I keep my voice steady, professional,
like I'm not feeling his eyes on me, Like I
don't recognize every brushstroke, just admiring the technique. Quite remarkable,
isn't it. His voice hits me like expensive whiskey, like memory,
like sin, the artist's attention to detail. I don't turn,
don't acknowledge Alexander Reid's presence behind me, don't let my
hands shake as they trace the frame. The detail is everything.
I step back, letting him move closer, close enough that
I smell his cologne, still Clive Christian number one. Some
things never change, especially the ones most people miss. And
what do you, Taiales? Are you seeing? Miss West? The
way he says my name, like he's tasting it, like
he remembers how his mouth felt forming different words against
my skin in Paris, ten years ago, when we were
different people, when we were artists of a different kind.
The brush work in the lower left corner. I gesture
with my gloved hand, The way the light plays across
the water lilies, the artist's signature style. Interesting choice of words.
He moves beside me, now, close enough that our arms
almost touch, given that signatures can be forged, speaking from experience,
mister Reid, his laugh is low, dangerous. I defer to
your expertise in such matters. Isabella clears her throat. I'll
leave you too, to complete the authentication. The opening starts
in three hours. The door closes behind her. In the
pristine quiet of the viewing room, the air charges with
ten years of unfinished business. You're looking well, Olivia. His
hand brushes mine as he reaches for the magnifying glass,
still preferring Windsor and newteon oils. You're looking expensive, Alex.
I turn to face him. Finally, he's aged, like fine art,
more valuable with time, still preferring to hunt forgers, only
the talented ones. His eyes hold mine, the ones who
know how to make perfect copies of water lilies in
Parisian studios. The memory hits like turpentine, sharp, intoxicating, dangerous.
Ten years ago, Paris secret, he'd murmured, his body pressed
against my back as he guided. My brush is in
the light, how it breaks across the water like this.
I'd let him move my hand, let him shape the strokes,
let him teach me how to create perfection from pigment
and desire perfect. His lips had found my neck just
like that. We'd worked through the night, passion and paint
mixing on our skin. By dawn, we'd created more than
just a masterpiece. We'd created our own destruction. Present day,
your technique has improved. His voice pulls me back. He's
examining the painting, but his eyes keep finding me. The
layering here, the texture almost perfect, almost. I move closer,
letting my hip brush his as I lean in professional
necessary show me. His hand covers mine on the magnifying glass,
positioning it over the lower corner, here where the light
meets shadow. Your signature, Tell my tell, but my pulse races.
He's right, that intersection of light and dark. That's where
I always sign my work. Not with a name, but
with a technique one he taught me. You still blur
the boundaries. His thumb strokes my wrist, just above my glove,
between what's real and what's artistry, says the security expert
with a history of helping forgers perfect their craft. His
other hand finds my waist, turning me to face him.
Only one forger, and how did that work out for you?
Instead of answering, he kisses me hard, deep, full of
decade old hunger and fresh danger. My back hits the
viewing table as his hands find skin under my silk blouse.
Tell me about the monnet, he demands between kisses, make me.
His response is immediate, professional, one hand tangling in my
hair while the other slides higher under silk. The brush
strokes he prompts, his mouth hot on my throat. Tell
me who painted them? You know who? I arch into
his touch? You were there? Tell me anyway. His teeth
graze my pulse point. Tell me how we spent three
nights getting the light just right. Four nights my fingers
find his shirt buttons. The fourth night we barely painted
at all. No, his hand finds the zipper of my skirt.
What were we doing instead? You remember? I let my
head fall back as his fingers trace lace. You had
me posed like one of Daigar's dancers. Neked. His voice
roughens on that antique chaised lounge, studying form. I gasp
as his fingers find their target, perfecting technique. Is that
what we're doing now? He lifts me onto the viewing table,
studying form. No, I wrap my legs around his waist.
Now we're creating something new. What follows is pure artistry,
his hands painting pleasure across my skin, my body arching
like a masterpiece under his touch. He takes me on
the viewing table, then against the gallery wall. Each thrust
a question, each moan an answer. Tell me about the monette,
he demands again, as pleasure builds. It's a forgery. I
bite his shoulder to keep from screaming our forgery, And
and someone knows. I come apart in his arms, Truth
spilling like expensive paint someone's using it to set us
both up. Later, straightening our clothes in the pristine gallery light,
reality crashes back. Who else knew? He fixes his tie
while I smooth my skirt, about Paris, about us, no one.
I reapply my lipstick, watching him in the reflection. That
was the point of forging the money, A private piece,
never meant to be sold, yet here it is. He
moves behind me, his hands settling on my hips, about
to be unveiled at the biggest private showing of the season.
Someone sending a message. I lean back against his chest,
but to which one of us? Maybe both? His mouth
finds my neck again. The question is why now, after
ten years before I can answer, my phone buzzers a
text from an unknown number. Beautiful performance. The passion in
your brushwork is still unmatched. Can't wait to see what
you create next. You have until the unveiling to figure
out where the real Monee is. Otherwise everyone learns exactly
how you perfected your technique. Attached is a photo Paris,
ten years ago, Alex and me in that sun drenched studio,
naked on the chaise lounge, surrounded by our beautiful crime. Well,
his laugh is dark against my skin, answers one question,
which is whether this is personal. His hands tightened possessively.
Someone's been watching us for a very long time, and
now they're forcing us to work together. Is that such
a bad thing? His reflection smirks at me. We did
create masterpieces together. We also destroyed each other. Did we
he turns me to face him, or did we just
leave the canvas unfinished? Another text buzzes, by the way,
the security cameras in the viewing room make for fascinating footage.
You always did love an audience, didn't you, Olivia. They're
watching us now I show him the message let them.
He kisses me hard and fast. We've always done our
best work with proper motivation. The gallery lights flicker once,
like a warning. In three hours, Manhattan's elite will flood
these rooms, expecting to see a priceless monette. Instead, they
might just witness a different kind of masterpiece. Two former
lovers turned enemies, turned partners creating something far more dangerous
than art, Ready to paint another masterpiece. His smile is
pure sin with you, I pull him down for one
more kiss. Always let the show begin.
Speaker 3: 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 2: Calaroga Shark Media