Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly.
Speaker 2: This episode is titled The Forgery, Part four, The Perfect Original.
Speaker 1: Three weeks after Thomas's arrest, I stand in the Thorn Gallery,
adjusting the neckline of my black gown. Tonight's opening is legitimate.
My first is the Galley's official authenticator. No forged masterpieces,
no hidden agendas, just Alex's fingers tracing my spine as
he comes up behind me. The Vermere authentication papers. Need
your signature, he murmurs, his breath warming my neck in
your office code for I can't wait another minute to
touch you professional distance, mister read. But I lean back
against his chest, letting him feel how my pulse quickens.
The board of directors is watching, let them. His hands
slide to my hips, hidden by a convenient sculpture. I've
been watching you all evening, The way you move in
this dress, the way it shows that Mark I left
this morning. Heat floods my body at the memory, his
mouth on my breast as sunlight painted our skin, his
hands mapping every inch of me before we had to
become professionals again, the papers, I remind him, But I'm
already moving toward my office. Ten minutes, I only need five.
My office door barely closes before his hands find the
zipper of my dress. Each tooth releasing sends electricity down
my spine. His mouth follows the path of exposed skin.
Tell me about the vermi. He murmurs, letting silk pool
at my feet. Which details interest you? I arch as
his fingers trace the lace edge of my lingerie, The brushwork,
the provenance, the way I shake when you. My words
dissolve into a gasp as his hand slides lower. His
touch is exquisite torture, expert fingers, knowing exactly how to
build pleasure, like layers of paint, all the details. He
turns me to face him, lifting me onto my desk,
show me everything. I work, his tie loose as his
mouth maps my collar bone. Each kiss marks territory we've
claimed together. No more masks, no more pretense, just pure sensation.
The authentication he prompts, voice rough as my fingers find
his belt, perfect technique. I wrap my legs around his waist,
flawless execution. Absolutely I lose my train of thought as
he enters me genuine. His rhythm is masterful, slow strokes
building intensity, like an artist crafting pleasure. My nails dig
into his shoulders as pressure builds, each thrust bringing me
closer to the edge. Look at me, he demands, one
hand tangling in my hair. Show me what's real. I
meet his eyes as pleasure spirals higher. His gaze holds mine,
intense and intimate, watching how I respond to every calculated touch,
every precise movement perfect. He breathes, changing his angle slightly.
The new position sends sparks of electricity through my core.
Like that first night in Paris, My body remembers how
he'd studied every response, learned every secret, mastered every way
to make me surrender to sensation. Now his expertise has
only deepened. Alex, his name falls from my lips as
pressure builds. My skin burns where he touches me, every nerve,
ending alive with need. Show me. His thumb finds exactly
the right spot as his thrust deepens, Let me see
you come apart. The pleasure crests suddenly intensely. My body
arches as waves of sensation wash through me. He follows immediately,
my name a prayer against my throat. After still joined,
his fingers trace patterns on my sweat dampened skin. Each
touch reignites small sparks of pleasure. The board meeting starts
in ten minutes. I murmur against his mouth. Then we
have time for a proper examine nation. His hands slide
lower again, of all the evidence. His mouth finds mine again,
tasting of promise and the champagne from earlier. But before
his hands can start another masterpiece, my phone buzzes on
the desk. A text illuminates the darkness. Beautiful performance, but
the real show is about to begin. Check the evening news.
Marcus Alex's body tenses against mine. That's impossible. He's in
federal custody. Was in federal custody. I reach for my dress,
but his hands stop me. Wait. His fingers trace the
curve of my breast, as if memorizing every detail. Let
me look at you, just in case, in case what.
Instead of answering, he shows me his mouth, replacing his hand,
drawing out new waves of pleasure. My fingers tangle in
his hair as sensation builds again. The news can wait,
The danger can wait. Right now, there's only this, his touch,
my response, our bodies creating something genuine in a world
of forgeries. Until my laptop chimes with a breaking news alert.
The news footage shows Marcus being escorted from prison, not
in handcuffs, but in a suit, free, all charges dropped.
I read Alex's hands still tracing patterns on my skin.
New evidence suggests extensive, frame up, frame up. His mouth
pauses at my throat. The only thing Marcus knows better
than art is how to make evidence disappear. I shift
in his lap, making him groan or appear. Another text,
the Rembrandt Midnight Wear, the Gold Dress from Rome. Remember Rome, Olivia,
before Paris, before Alex. My blood runs cold, Rome, where
everything really began. You never told me about Rome. Alex's
fingers tighten on my hips. No, I meet his eyes
because Rome wasn't about art. What was it about murder?
His hands still on my skin. The authenticator, the one
Thomas killed in Berlin. Her sister. I pressed closer, needing
his heat, teaching me everything I'd need to know to infiltrate,
to seduce, to destroy them from within. Her name was Sophia.
My fingers trace Alex's jaw as the truth spills out.
She taught me about more than just art authentication. She
taught me how to become someone else, How to make
them trust me, want me like you did with me
in Paris. But his hands don't leave my skin. No,
I kiss him soft and real. Paris wasn't part of
the plan. You weren't part of the plan. What changed everything?
I roll my hips, making him gasp. The way you
taught me about light and shadow, The way you saw
past every forgery to what was real, The way you
made me feel. His mouth claims mine, deep and demanding.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with need
and understanding. Show me. He lifts me onto the desk again,
Show me what's real Now? This time is different, Slower, deeper,
every touch carrying the weight of revelation. His hands map
my body like he's discovering truth in every curve. My
fingers trace his skin, like I'm finally signing my real
name to a masterpiece, the Rembrandt. He murmurs against my breast.
It's a trap, of course, it is, I arch as
His mouth moves lower. But this time we know who's
really pulling the strings, do we? Instead of answering, I
show him exactly who's in control now, who's mastered whom,
who's creating something? No one else can forge. When pleasure
finally releases us, we stay connected, my legs wrapped around him,
his forehead pressed to mine. The gold dress wasn't for Marcus,
I whisper against his mouth. It was for Sophia's sister,
the night she taught me my final lesson, which was
the true masterpieces can't be forged. My fingers trace his chest,
feeling his heart race. Something have to be created from
blank canvas like us. My phone buzzes again. A photo
appears Rome eight years ago, Me in that gold dress,
Sophia's sister teaching me about more than just art, about seduction,
about power. They documented everything. Alex's hands tightened possessively from
the beginning. Not everything I slide from the desk, letting
him watch as I dress, Not what happened after Paris,
not why I really left, Tell me better. I hand
him his shirt. Let me show you tonight at the
Rembrandt exchange. His smile curves against my neck as he
helps with my zipper. What are we forging this time? Nothing?
I turn in his arms. That's the point. For the
first time, we're creating something original and Marcus, we'll see
exactly what he expects to see. I check my lipstick
in the mirror. Two lovers caught in his perfect trap,
until until he realizes he's caught in hours. The gold
dress hugs every curve as I dress in my private studio.
Alex watches from my chaise lounge, his tie still undone,
looking like every fantasy I'd had in Paris. The Rembrandt's
already in place, he says, eyes following my movements, the
real one, not the forgery Marcus expects, and Sophia's fire
hidden where they've always been. He stands, moving behind me
to help with my zipper. In plain sight, his fingers
linger on my skin, making concentration difficult. The gallery vault
the first place they'll look. His mouth finds my shoulder,
while the actual evidence sits in the restoration room behind
your favorite de Ga. Clever boy, I turn in his arms.
Now we just need the final peace, which is Marcus's confession.
I let him feel the wire beneath my dress, about Rome,
about Sophia's sister, about everything, and how do we get that?
I pull him down for a kiss that makes him
groan by giving him exactly what he wants, the student
surrendering to the master while your lover watches helplessly. His
hands slide under silk exactly. I arch into his touch
until he reveals the truth about Rome, and then then
we show him what real artists can create. The drive
to the gallery is charged with anticipation, his hand on
my thigh as he drives my fingers, tracing patterns up
his arm. By the time we arrive, we're both burning
for different reasons. Marcus waits in the private viewing room.
The Rembrandt glows on the wall behind him. Beautiful. His
eyes trace my dress, just like Rome, though he circles
me slowly. You've lost that innocent quality, that vulnerability. We
all lose something. I let him move closer. Some of
us lose sisters. His hand stills on my bare shoulder.
So you finally figured it out. I knew in Berlin.
I turned to face him when you had Thomas kill
the other sister loose ends. His smile is sharp, like
you were supposed to be, until you surprised me, until
you started creating your own masterpieces like this. I stepped back,
letting him see Alex emerge from the shadows, letting him
see the evidence. We've arranged the files the photos, the truth.
What follows is chaos and beauty and justice. Federal agents
appearing like figures stepping out of a painting, Marcus's confession
echoing off marble walls, the truth about Rome, about Sophia's sisters,
about everything, finally coming to light. Later in my studio,
Alex's hands peel the gold dress from my skin. No
more performance, he murmurs, against my throat, No more forgeries,
I agree, working his tie loose, just us, just us.
His mouth finds mine as we create something entirely new,
something real, something that could never be forged or copied
or stolen. Dawn finds us tangled in sheets that smell
of paint and passion and possibility. Outside the city awakens
like a fresh canvas, ready to create something original. He
traces my spine as I stretch against him with you,
I smile against his mouth always. The morning light catches
the ring he slides onto my finger, not diamond, but
a perfect copy of his mother's antique sapphire. One last forgery.
I raise an eyebrow. No, he kisses me, deep and sure.
This one's real. And in a world of perfect fakes
and flawless forgeries, we finally created the one thing that
can never be duplicated. The 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