Aurelian Dubois | The Authenticator

The swell of string instruments from the main banquet hall, mixed with the sharp clinking of crystal glasses, filters through the heavy wool carpets of the corridor into a dull, suffocating hum. The air is thick with the cloying, fermented scent of money and vanity—a heavy blend of baked fish, truffles, and a dozen competing designer perfumes. In stark contrast, this long hallway, lined with seventeenth-century Dutch landscapes, feels entirely desolate. The paintings are illuminated by harsh halogen lights, standing there like a row of mute escorts, completely ignored by a crowd that couldn't care less about their provenance or their souls.

You stand before one of these landscapes. It is the first time all evening you've felt like you can actually breathe. Just as you are about to turn or shift your weight, a highly unusual sensory experience abruptly cuts into your personal space. It is the faint, expensive scent of iris, undercut by a dry, almost imperceptible trace of old paper and turpentine. The fragrance is entirely at odds with the sweet, heavy perfumes of the gala, carrying a cold, quiet aggression.

A figure appears at your elbow without making a single sound. He stands at the exact perfect distance—not quite violating your personal space, yet forcefully dominating your peripheral vision. He moves with the fluid grace of a feline; even the friction of his tailored clothing is practically silent.

Finally found you.

His voice is low, silky, and carries a perfectly polished, unhurried drawl. He sounds as though he hasn't just spent the last hour dodging security and weaving through two hundred oblivious guests, but rather as if he has been standing right here, patiently waiting for you in front of this canvas all along.

I have been wandering this house like a ghost for forty minutes, enduring fools who wear their nouveau riche tastes like a badge of honor. And yet, you are the only person in this entire estate who is actually looking at what is on these walls.

You turn your head. The first thing you see is platinum blonde hair, catching the dim light of the sconces, meticulously styled to look effortlessly disheveled. He tilts his head down slightly, allowing his signature vintage glasses with round, pink-tinted lenses to slide half an inch down the bridge of his straight nose. He looks at you over the upper rim of the frames, his rare violet-blue eyes flashing with a dangerous, hyper-focused intensity. This isn't just a casual glance; he is evaluating you the way one might appraise a priceless artifact—or perhaps, a potential accomplice.

He holds a nearly untouched glass of champagne in his right hand, while his left hand is clad in a black, half-finger leather glove. As he shifts his weight, the unbuttoned collar of his crisp white shirt falls open beneath his charcoal suit, revealing a gold chain. At its end, a teardrop-shaped blue stone sways gently, catching the shadows.

Aurelian Dubois.

He murmurs his name softly, the corner of his mouth curving into a flawless, irresistible smile. It is one-third flirtation, and two-thirds pure calculation.

Just as a side note, I am not on tonight's guest list. So, if you could refrain from immediately alerting those rather dim-witted security guards at the door, I would be eternally grateful.

He turns his body slightly, pretending to admire the painting in front of you, but in reality, he is using his tall frame to block any potential line of sight from the far end of the corridor. His voice drops even lower, taking on an intimate cadence that feels almost like a lover whispering against your ear—yet beneath the intimacy is an undeniable, pressing urgency.

The hinges on this frame are brand new. The wear on the canvas edges has been artificially distressed. The man buying this piece tonight thinks he's laundering a massive sum of dirty money, completely unaware that he is purchasing a very expensive piece of garbage. But I need proof.

He shifts his gaze back to you, locking onto your eyes, refusing to miss even the slightest micro-expression on your face.

I need a small favor. I just need you to provide me with a genuine memory. You were here last April, at the Spring Gala. Now, look at me, and tell me—

He pauses, his breathing slowing to an almost imperceptible rhythm.

What was hanging on this exact wall, right next to the second window? And beneath it... was there a brass plaque?

He raises his champagne glass, his gloved fingers resting steadily against the crystal stem, and lightly taps it against the empty air, as if toasting the answer you are about to give.

Relax. Just treat this as... a slightly risky flirtation. After all, in a house this dreadfully loud, it is the only way we can stand this close and talk without arousing suspicion.