After my mother’s funeral, I inherited her favorite but old painting, while my sister got her three vacation homes…

And all these years, they’ve been searching. They’ve spent a fortune on searching for their collection. They have the best lawyers, the best private detectives.

He approached Elena and put his hand on her shoulder. These are very powerful people. And very unyielding.

Newspapers wrote that they’ve been suing European museums for years over a single watercolor. And winning. They won’t stop at anything to get back what’s theirs.

Elena felt the ground slip from under her feet. The trap snapped shut. On one side, Alex and Olivia, ready to commit her to a psych ward.

On the other, omnipotent heirs who, learning the truth, would crush her like a bug. The painting turned from a gift into a curse. Into a time bomb lying in this room.

I need to go home, she whispered. She suddenly desperately wanted to be in her apartment, even if empty and hostile. She needed to think.

Alone. Samuel didn’t dissuade her. The painting and documents stay with me.

That’s not even discussed. Go. But be careful.

And remember, not a word to anyone. At home, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Elena walked through the rooms. Dust lay in a thin layer on the furniture. Alex hadn’t appeared.

She sat on the couch. What to do? Call these Sheffields? Come with a confession? Hello, I have your painting worth tens of millions that my family hid for a hundred years. They won’t give her a reward.

They’ll accuse her of concealing stolen property. And Alex and Olivia will gladly testify that she’s an insane thief. This is the end.

She sat like that for probably an hour. Not moving. Her head was absolutely empty.

There was no fear, no despair. Only dull, gray fatigue. And in this deafening silence, a sharp, demanding doorbell rang.

Elena flinched as if electrocuted. Who could it be? Alex? Olivia? She slowly stood up and on stiff legs approached the door. Looked through the peephole.

On the landing stood an unfamiliar man. Tall, in an impeccably tailored dark suit that probably cost as much as her car. He had a calm, impenetrable face and cold, attentive eyes.

He didn’t look like a thug or a policeman. He looked like a surgeon before a complex operation. Confident, precise, ruthless.

Her heart pounded in a panic rhythm. She leaned her forehead against the cold door, praying he would leave. But he didn’t leave.

He just stood and waited. He knew she was home. Finally, gathering the remnants of her will, she turned the key in the lock and cracked the door open.

The man didn’t smile. He looked her straight in the eyes. Elena Harper? His voice was as calm and cold as his gaze.

She nodded silently. He didn’t introduce himself. He simply stated a fact, and there wasn’t a drop of doubt in his tone.

You have our painting. These three words sounded like a sentence. He wasn’t asking.

He was stating. He knew. All her fears, all the apprehensions of recent days materialized in this man standing on the threshold of her apartment.

My clients, he continued in the same even, emotionless tone, the Sheffield family, are ready to show generosity. They are ready to offer you a reward for the find and storage.

The amount will be significant. He paused, letting her absorb what was said. And then his voice became even firmer, turning into steel.

Or we can go another way. We file a report to the police. A search warrant for your apartment and workshop, your late friend Mr. Peters.

And a criminal case against you for acquiring and storing property known to be obtained by criminal means. Choose. Elena stood in the doorway, clutching the handle so that her knuckles turned white.

The stranger’s words, cold and honed like a surgeon’s scalpel, pierced her consciousness. Criminal case. Search.

Mr. Peters. They knew everything. Not just assumed, but knew exactly.

Her silence, her attempts to hide were meaningless. They had been watching her. Possibly since the day she left the vault.

Possibly leading Samuel too. Who are you? That’s all she could squeeze out. My name is Roman Sheffield.

I represent the family’s interests, he replied, and a slight nod indicated that he too belonged to this clan. You have 24 hours to think. After that, my offer is canceled, and we start acting on the second scenario.

I’ll leave you my business card. Don’t lose it. He handed her a card of thick, expensive cardboard.

Elena mechanically took it. Her fingers touched his—they were cold as ice. He didn’t wait for an answer.

He simply turned and left, his steps echoing in the silence of the stairwell. The elevator door closed, and silence fell. Elena still stood in the opening, looking at the empty landing.

In her hand, she clutched the card. On it was embossed in gold Roman Sheffield. Heritage Law Firm.

And a phone number. She slammed the door and slid down it to the floor. 24 hours.

They gave her 24 hours to decide whether to become a rich accomplice or a poor criminal. A choice without a choice. She was cornered.

Her first impulse was to call Samuel. But she stopped herself. Their phones were probably tapped.

This Roman didn’t throw words to the wind. She couldn’t risk the old man. She needed to think.

But thoughts tangled, scattered. The painting. Sheffield.

Alex. Olivia. Debts.

Criminal case. It all wove into one tight, suffocating knot. She was alone against everyone.

Against her husband and sister who wanted to declare her insane. And against a powerful family who wanted to make her a thief. At the same time, in an expensive restaurant in downtown New York, Olivia and Alex sat at a table and waited tensely.

Olivia nervously fiddled with a napkin. Alex tried to look relaxed, but his fingers constantly tapped on the table. Are you sure this will work? he asked in a low voice.

Where did you even learn about them? My husband has an acquaintance in legal circles, Olivia answered with superiority. I just asked him to inquire about major cases related to the return of artworks. The name Sheffield came up immediately.

I put the facts together. This painting isn’t just anything. And when I mentioned the surname Sinclair, everything became clear.

The news that some influential clan was looking for the painting that went to Elena turned everything upside down for Olivia. At first, she was furious—not only was she deceived with debts, but the real treasure went to that wimp Elena.

But then rage gave way to cold calculation. This was her chance. A chance not just to get rid of debts but to hit a huge jackpot.

She called Alex. Listen carefully, she said to him. The game changes.

It’s not about taking the painting from her. It’s about helping return it to the rightful owners. For a very good reward.

Alex didn’t understand at first. But Olivia quickly explained everything to him. Their campaign to discredit Elena was perfect preparation.

They had already created her image as an inadequate, greedy woman. Now they just needed to present this story correctly to the real owners of the painting. And here they sat in the restaurant, waiting for a meeting with Roman Sheffield.

He appeared exactly at the appointed time. As impeccable as on the threshold of Elena’s apartment. He sat at their table, refused the menu, and looked at them expectantly.

We have 10 minutes, he said. I’m listening. Olivia took the word.

She turned on the actress again, but this time played a different role. The role of an honest, responsible relative worried about the family’s reputation. Mr. Sheffield, she began in an agitated voice.

We know what you’re looking for. And we know it’s with my sister Elena. We, with her husband Alex.

She nodded at her ally, are horrified by what’s happening. She paused. Looking at Roman with an expression of sincere grief.

Elena found this painting. And she learned who it belongs to. We ourselves accidentally found out.

And we tried to reason with her. Persuaded her to return it to you, the rightful owners. But after Mother’s death, she’s not herself.

Alex picked up. She raves about this painting. Says it’s her inheritance, that she won’t give it to anyone.

We’re afraid she’ll try to sell it on the black market. She’s already looking for contacts of some underground appraisers. She’s completely lost touch with reality.

They spoke in unison, like from sheet music. They laid out before Roman the same story they broadcast on social networks, only now with new, necessary details. They weren’t greedy relatives.

They were saviors. Saviors of the family’s reputation and the painting itself. Roman listened to them silently, his face remaining impenetrable.

He didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask questions. When they finished, he looked at Olivia, then at Alex for a few seconds. And what do you want? he asked finally.

Olivia took a deep breath. We want justice. We want the painting returned to you.

And we’re ready to help. We’re ready to give official testimony. Sign any documents.

Tell under oath that Elena knew about the painting’s origin and deliberately concealed it, planning an illegal sale. Our testimony, testimony of the closest people, won’t leave her a single chance in court. She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

With our help, you’ll get the painting quickly and without extra noise. Without a scandal in the press, without a long and dirty court battle with a mentally unbalanced woman who will scream on every corner that she was robbed. We’ll ensure you a quiet and quick victory.

Silence fell. Roman drummed his fingers on the table. And in return? he asked.

And in return, Olivia smiled her most charming smile. We believe we have the right to part of the reward you would pay for the find. For our honesty.

For help. For the time and money saved by you. Say 30% of its appraised value.

The figure was named. Bold, impudent. Alex held his breath.

Roman looked at Olivia. There was no surprise or indignation in his eyes. There was only cold curiosity of a pragmatist evaluating a new tool.

He considered them not as people but as an asset. Useful but dirty.

He was silent so long that Alex began to fidget in his chair.

Finally, Roman stood up. Your proposal is interesting. I’ll consider it.

He turned to leave but then stopped as if remembering something. You mentioned she’s looking for appraisers. That she has a plan to sell the painting.

Do you have any evidence of this? Recordings of conversations? Correspondence? Any little things that could confirm your words in court. Olivia and Alex exchanged glances. We—we’ll try to find something, Olivia said hastily.

Try, Roman said evenly. The more such evidence you have, the higher the chance we’ll accept your proposal. And he left, leaving them alone at the table.

Olivia and Alex were silent for a few seconds, then Alex couldn’t hold back and laughed nervously. It worked. He bit.

Of course it worked, Olivia said smugly, sipping champagne. People like him don’t need truth. They need results.

And we’ll provide them. She looked at Alex, her eyes gleaming predatorily. Now our task is to find evidence.

Or create it. You live with her in one apartment. You have access to her phone, computer.

You must find something. Overhear a conversation. Make a screenshot…