The Private Viewing

The invitation arrives in a black envelope, sealed with actual wax.

I turn it over in my hands, running my thumb across the crimson seal—an elegant V pressed into the surface. No return address. No postmark. Just my name in silver calligraphy: Dr. Simone Laurent.

My assistant hovers in the doorway of my office. "It was hand-delivered. The courier wouldn't say who sent it."

I already know.

There's only one collector in the world pretentious enough to use wax seals and mysterious enough to warrant hand-delivery. Alexander Vance. The man who bought a Caravaggio at auction last spring without ever appearing in the room—just a disembodied voice on a phone line, bidding until everyone else surrendered.

I break the seal and slide out a single card, heavy cream stock with embossed lettering.

Dr. Laurent,

Your expertise is required for a private appraisal. My driver will collect you Friday at 8 PM. Dress for an evening of art and conversation.

—V

That's it. No address. No details about the collection. No indication of what he wants appraised or why he's chosen me out of every expert in Manhattan.

I should decline. I have protocols. Reputable auction houses don't send their senior specialists to mysterious appointments with reclusive billionaires. There are liability concerns, insurance issues, a dozen professional reasons to pass this to someone else.

But I don't.

Because in fifteen years of appraising masterworks, I've never seen the inside of the Vance collection. No one has. It's legendary in our world—rumored to contain pieces that officially don't exist, works that vanished from museums decades ago, paintings the art world has mourned as lost forever.

And because, if I'm honest with myself, I'm curious about the man behind the myth.

Alexander Vance. Forty-one years old. Tech fortune turned into one of the largest private art collections on the planet. Never photographed, never interviewed, never seen at the galas and openings where collectors typically preen. He acquires through intermediaries, bidding by phone, his identity confirmed only by the wire transfers that follow.

The art world calls him The Ghost.

I call my assistant back. "Clear my Friday evening."

---

The car that arrives is a Bentley, black and gleaming, driven by a man who says exactly three words: "Dr. Laurent. Good evening."

We drive north out of the city, past the last familiar landmarks, into the kind of darkness that only exists where wealth buys privacy. After an hour, we turn onto a private road lined with ancient oaks, their branches forming a canopy that blocks even the stars.

The house materializes from the darkness like something from a Gothic novel. Stone and glass, modern angles married to classical proportions. It shouldn't w...