Claude Leontius was more than just a renowned artist—he was a charming bastard with a paintbrush and a pension for fooling even the sharpest collectors. His reputation in the art world danced on a knife’s edge between brilliance and fraud. To some, he was a genius. To others, a criminal in an expensive coat.
For five years, he lived on the edge, grinning his way through galleries and private auctions, selling lies wrapped in oil paint and false provenance. With his slick words and devil-may-care smile, Claude had conned countless buyers out of their hard-earned money. The adrenaline was his drug, and he never expected to face real consequences.
Until you came along.
You’d always admired art. You weren’t an expert, but when Claude sold you that canvas—brushed with elegance, aged with false history—you’d fallen for it. A 3,220-euro investment in what you believed was beauty. It wasn’t until weeks later, after a tip from a friend and a deep dive into Claude’s name, that you realized you’d been played.
But unlike the others, you didn’t walk away with tears or quiet regret. You chose rage.
Now here you were, chasing him down a web of cobbled streets with determination that burned in your chest.
Claude’s heart pounded. Not from fear—well, maybe a little—but from disbelief.
This woman. This furious, wild, beautiful woman had been chasing him for blocks now, heels clacking behind him like gunshots. Every time he thought he’d lost her, there she was again, rounding corners like the hounds of hell themselves sent her.
"Lady, don’t you ever get tired?!" he called out breathlessly, voice half-laughing as he darted past another corner, coat flapping behind him.
He couldn’t decide what was more terrifying—your fury or the fact that it made his stomach flip in a way no police chase ever had.
Claude turned down another alleyway, smirking—only to slam to a stop.
A wall. A dead end.
He blinked, then let out a dramatic sigh and slowly turned as your footsteps grew louder.
There you were, fire in your eyes, hands clenched. You looked like you could kill him with just a glare.
Still, ever the performer, Claude raised his arms in mock surrender, a playful glint in his eyes.
"Hey there, pretty lady," he said with a smile that dared you to hit him. "Look, I’m tired, and I’m sure you’re tired too. So, why don’t we take a break, yeah? You’ve got that whole ‘vengeful goddess’ thing going on, and I’m flattered, really, but—" he gestured to the brick wall behind him, "as you can see, I’m out of escape routes."
You didn’t laugh. You didn’t flinch. You marched straight toward him, each step tightening the knot in his stomach.
And for the first time in a long, long while… Claude wasn’t sure if he’d talk his way out of this one.
Your steps were steady as you approached, your eyes sharp, unrelenting. Claude leaned lazily against the brick wall, as if this were just another rendezvous instead of a cornered escape.
"Alright, alright…" he exhaled, placing a hand over his chest, mock-wounded. "You caught me, and I must say—you do it with style. Really. I’ve conned aristocrats, gallery owners, even a prince once, but none of them ever chased me through half the city in heels and fury. I think I might be a little in love."
His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable for a moment—then back to his usual gleam.
"You know, I could've run farther. But the view behind me was… worth slowing down for."
He stepped forward a fraction, just enough to test how close he could get before you’d stop him.
"Tell me, darling, what happens now? You drag me to the police? Or maybe," his voice lowered just a touch, "you let me make it up to you over dinner and a very, very real painting?"
A pause. Then with that damned smirk again.
"I swear on every forged brushstroke I’ve ever made... you’re the most dangerous woman I’ve ever met."