Iona held the scalpel like an extension of her hand. The room smelled of turpentine and rabbit-skin glue. She wore magnifying loupes, her breath slow and steady.

She worked for two days straight. She carefully dissolved the top layer of the Dutch landscape. Beneath the dull greens and browns, a different color began to emerge. A vibrant, golden ochre.

Her heart rate spiked. She scraped away another millimeter of grime.

A face stared back at her. A woman with golden hair and sorrowful eyes. The brushwork was unmistakable. The thick impasto, the dramatic chiaroscuro.

It was a Rembrandt. An early, undocumented masterpiece.

Iona sat back, her hands trembling slightly. This painting was worth millions. It was her war chest.

She took high-resolution photos and wrote a detailed report, analyzing the pigment, the canvas weave, and the brushstrokes. She uploaded the encrypted file to a secure server, then sent a message to her contact, Mr. Collier, with a single line of code-a specific reference to a lost 19th-century pigment analysis technique. It was a signal only a handful of people in the world would understand. It would bypass gatekeepers and go straight to the top.

She finally stepped out of the studio, her muscles stiff, paint smudged on her cheek. It was midnight.

The living room lights were on. Kevan Sanders sat on the sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked up, his eyes trailing over her messy hair and paint-stained clothes.

"Harmon froze your accounts," he said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"I know," Iona replied.

Kevan reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, black credit card. He placed it on the coffee table. "No limit. I don't want the press writing about Mrs. Sanders being broke."

Iona stared at the card. It represented total dependence. It represented being kept.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. "No, thank you. I'll handle it myself."

Kevan's hand froze on the glass. His eyes narrowed, genuinely shocked for the first time since she had met him. A woman with zero dollars to her name had just turned down a blank check.

Kevan stared at her, trying to find the angle. Everyone wanted something. "What game are you playing?"

Iona didn't blink. "No game. I just don't need your money."

Kevan stood up, his jaw tight. He caught a whiff of her scent-solvents and linseed oil. "What were you doing in there?"

"Painting," she said simply.

He stared at her for a long moment, then turned and walked toward his bedroom. "Don't burn the apartment down."

The next morning, Iona checked her email. An encrypted reply from a top-tier Sotheby's address was waiting. Her code had worked. The senior appraiser was practically begging for a private viewing, offering to meet anywhere, anytime, under any conditions. Iona agreed to a meeting in three days at a private club, demanding an NDA.

She got dressed to visit the Hollis family. As she walked out of the elevator into the lobby, she saw Kevan and Arthur waiting by the town car.

Arthur's hand was raised, and the ring glinted in the morning sun. The feeling of dread hit Iona like a physical blow. The bad luck was stronger now. It was hungry.

She walked over to them. Kevan gave her a warning look.

Iona ignored him. She looked directly at Arthur. "Mr. Finch, I wasn't joking the other day. That ring is dangerous. Get rid of it. The historical precedent I mentioned is too strong to be a coincidence. Please, don't wear it anywhere involving heights."

Arthur paled, remembering the elevator incident. Kevan stepped between them, his voice like ice. "Iona. Stop."

"I'm trying to help," she said calmly.

"You're being hysterical," Kevan snapped. "Get in the car, Arthur. We're late."

Arthur hesitated, then got in. Iona watched them drive away. She had done her duty. She hailed a cab, her mind already shifting to her family.

In the town car, Kevan was furious. "A Rust Belt girl lecturing us on antiques. It's embarrassing."

Arthur twisted the ring on his finger. "Sir, the elevator... what if she's right?"

"Coincidence," Kevan said firmly. "There's no such thing as curses."

They arrived at Vance Group headquarters. The private elevator was waiting. They stepped inside, the doors sliding shut.

Arthur stared at the floor numbers, his heart pounding. He thought about her words. "Heights."

The elevator began to ascend.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. A high-pitched screech echoed through the shaft.

Arthur's nervousness vanished.

The lights went out, plunging the elevator into darkness. The red emergency light bathed the small space in a bloody glow.

"Sir!" Arthur grabbed the handrail, his knuckles white.

Kevan's instincts kicked in. He didn't waste a second on panic. He immediately pressed the emergency call button-no response. He tried the intercom-dead silence.

A violent jolt shook the car. Then a sound-metal snapping, like a gunshot.

The elevator dropped.

It wasn't a smooth descent. It was a free fall. Arthur screamed, his stomach lurching into his throat.

Kevan grabbed the railing with one hand and shoved Arthur against the wall. "Bend your knees! Hold the rail!"

The floor numbers were a blur. 40... 30... 20...

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. She was right. The ring. The heights.

Kevan's mind was ice. He thought of the cables. This was a top-of-the-line system. Cables didn't just snap.

10... 9... 8...

Kevan braced himself, his muscles locked.

A deafening screech filled the shaft as the emergency brakes engaged. Metal ground against metal. The elevator lurched violently, throwing them against the walls like rag dolls.

Kevan hit his head on the panel, a hot rush of blood streaming down his forehead. Arthur collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

The car stopped, swaying sickeningly between the third and fourth floors.

Sirens wailed outside. Voices shouted from above and below.

Kevan wiped the blood from his eyes, his chest heaving. He looked at the severed cables above them. Seven out of eight had been cut clean through. The eighth had snapped under the strain.

This wasn't an accident. It was a hit.

And his wife-the woman he had dismissed as a crazy, broke gold-digger-had predicted it down to the detail. Heights. Falling.

Who the hell was Iona Sanders?