Cold seeped into Anya's bones. She shivered, pulling her thin cardigan tighter against the biting chill of the gallery. Sunlight, weak and hesitant, barely pierced the grime on the tall front windows, casting long, accusing shadows across the empty pedestals. Bare patches marred the walls where paintings once hung. They were sold years ago, back when her father was alive, when the Sharma Gallery had been a vibrant hub, bustling with collectors and critics. Now, only ghosts of art remained. Dust motes danced in the anemic light, an unwelcome reminder of stagnation. Anya ran a gloved hand over the chipped mahogany counter. Every surface screamed neglect, a quiet testament to a dream slowly suffocating. Her gaze drifted to the framed photograph on her worn oak desk. Leena's bright, defiant smile stared back, a stark contrast to the sterile hospital room where her younger sister now spent most of her days. Every day was a fight for breath, a struggle against a rare autoimmune disease. Those medical bills. They piled higher than the unsold auction catalogues. Each envelope, crisp and official, landed like a fresh punch to her gut, demanding more than the gallery could ever hope to earn. Frustration clawed at her throat. She clenched her jaw, the muscle twitching. The gallery was her legacy, Leena was her responsibility. Both were sinking, and Anya was the only one with a shovel, digging frantically against the rising tide. Her secret life beckoned. It was a dark, dangerous whisper in the quiet hours, a necessary evil that kept Leena breathing and the gallery's lights flickering. Anya was no ordinary art dealer. She was the phantom hand behind masterpieces, a ghost in the hallowed halls of art history. A forger. Last night, the ‘Monet’ had finally been perfect. Hours bent over the easel, her hand mimicking the master's precise, yet fluid, brushstrokes. The scent of oil paint and turpentine clung to her clothes, a tell-tale odor she scrubbed away before dawn. Her studio, a hidden annex above the gallery, was her sanctuary and her prison. Here, she breathed life into shadows, creating beauty that was both real and utterly fraudulent. The thrill was intoxicating, the risk, terrifying. Anya's phone buzzed, vibrating on the desk. She glanced at the caller ID: Dr. Evans. Her stomach dropped. This could only mean one thing.

Chapter 1: Shadow of Ruin