The basement smelled like eighty years of dust and secrets.
We stood there—me, Ryan, Marcus, Zoe, and Nana Rose—staring at something impossible. The FBI had arrested Victoria two hours ago, thanks to Ryan's evidence and their perfect timing. Marcus was safe, if shaken. And now we were here, in the basement of the old bubble tea shop, looking at my grandmother's hidden legacy.
Seventy-three paintings. Dozens of sculptures. Scrolls that looked older than San Francisco itself.
"She saved them all," Nana Rose whispered, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. "Not just her own work. Pieces from every family in the neighborhood."
I moved through the room in a daze, unwrapping canvases. Each one was perfect, preserved like they'd been painted yesterday. Landscapes of a San Francisco that didn't exist anymore. Portraits of people whose names were lost to time.
And in the corner, wrapped in silk, was a self-portrait of my grandmother. Young, fierce, holding a paintbrush like a sword. Ready to fight the whole world.
"This one alone is worth two million," Ryan said quietly, pointing to a landscape. "The entire collection... we're talking fifty million, maybe more."
"It's not about money," I said automatically.
Everyone looked at me like I'd grown a second head.
"Lily," Marcus said carefully, "that's enough money to change our lives forever."
"It's enough money to change a lot of lives." I touched my grandmother's self-portrait. "These belong in a museum. The whole story needs to be told."
"We could sell just a few—" Zoe started.
"No. They stay together. The way she meant them to."
Ryan moved closer to me. Not touching, just... there. "There's a way to do both. Create a foundation, loan them to museums. Use the insurance value to fund programs. Keep ownership but share the art."
"You've thought about this?"
"I've thought about a lot of things." He met my eyes. "I'm sorry. For everything. For lying, for my family, for—"
"Stop." I was too tired for this. Too overwhelmed.
But then I saw something in his eyes. Real pain. Real regret.
"You called the FBI," I said. "You saved Marcus."
"It doesn't make up for—"
"No, it doesn't. But it's a start."
Nana Rose cleared her throat. "There's something else you need to see."
She led us to another corner, where a single painting was wrapped in oilcloth. Inside was a portrait of two people. My grandmother and a white man with intense eyes.
"That's James Blackwood," Ryan said, his voice strange. "My great-grandfather."
On the back, in faded ink: Our secret. Our shame. Our love.
"They were together?" I asked.
"Before the camps. He promised to wait for her, to protect everything." Nana Rose's voice was sad. "But family pressure, racism, fear... he married someone else while she was gone."
"So he betrayed her."
"Yes. But also..." Nana Rose pulled out an envelope that had been hidden behind the painting. "Read this."
The letter was in shaking handwriting:
To whoever finds this—
I was a coward. I chose family over love, money over truth. But I kept her secrets. The paintings, the diary, everything. I couldn't save her, but I could save what she loved.
Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her she was right to never forgive me.
—J.B.
"He knew where everything was hidden?" Ryan asked.
"He helped hide it," Nana Rose said. "Before he betrayed her, he loved her. That love was real, even if it wasn't enough."
"Love is never enough," I said, bitter.
"Sometimes it is," Ryan said quietly. "Sometimes it's everything."
Our eyes met across the dusty basement. Something electric passed between us.
"Oh my God, just kiss already," Zoe groaned. "The tension is killing me."
"Zoe!" Marcus protested.
But Ryan was already moving. He stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his green eyes.
"I know I have no right to ask," he said. "But I'm falling for you, Lily Chen. Hard. And I think maybe you're falling too."
"You lied to me."
"I did."
"Your family destroyed mine."
"They did."
"This is a terrible idea."
"The worst."
"So why do I want to kiss you anyway?"
"Because sometimes wrong feels right?"
"That's a terrible line."
"I'm nervous. Sue me."
Despite everything, I laughed. And then I grabbed his stupid perfect collar and pulled him down and kissed him.
It wasn't sweet. It was angry and desperate and full of all the adrenaline from the last few days. I bit his lip and he groaned, pushing me back against the wall. His hands tangled in my hair and I couldn't think about anything except how solid he felt, how he tasted like coffee and possibility.
"Okay, gross, stop," Marcus said loudly.
We broke apart, breathing hard. Ryan's glasses were crooked and his lips were swollen and he looked at me like I was his whole world.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," I said.
"I know."
"Or that I trust you."
"I know."
"Or that we're together."
"I know."
"Stop saying 'I know.'"
"Okay."
"Ryan?"
"Yeah?"
"Kiss me again."
He did. This time softer, sweeter. Like we had all the time in the world.
"If you two are done," Marcus said, "we have a problem."
We turned. He was holding his phone, showing us a news alert: Victoria Blackwood Posts Bail, Disappears.
"She's out?" Zoe asked, panicked.
Ryan pulled out his phone, calling someone. "Martinez? Yeah, I saw. How is that possible?"
He listened, his face getting paler.
"What?" I asked when he hung up.
"Victoria has connections we didn't know about. International connections." He looked around the basement. "She'll come for all of this."
"Then we move it," Marcus said. "Tonight."
"Where? It's not like we can hide seventy-three paintings in my studio apartment."
"The museum," Ryan said. "I have contacts at the de Young. They'll take emergency custody."
"Can we trust them?"
"Can we trust anyone?" He took my hand. "But we have to try."
We spent the next four hours carefully loading paintings into a rented truck. Each piece felt like holding history, holding my grandmother's soul.
As we loaded the last painting, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
This isn't over. —V.B.
"She's watching us," I said.
"Let her watch," Ryan said. "She can't touch these now. They're protected."
But something felt wrong. Too easy.
"Ryan," I said slowly, "what if she's not after the paintings?"
"What else is there?"
I thought about the diary, still in my bag. The second diary Ryan had shown me. The letters.
"What if there's more? What if the paintings were just the beginning?"
Ryan's phone rang. He answered, his face going white.
"What?" I demanded.
"Someone broke into my apartment. They took everything. Including..." He looked sick. "Including the documents I hadn't given the FBI yet."
"What documents?"
"Proof that Victoria wasn't the only one hunting your grandmother's legacy." He met my eyes. "Lily, there are others. And one of them might be in your family."
"What are you talking about?"
Before he could answer, another text came through. This time with a photo.
It was my mom. My dead mom. Standing in what looked like an airport.