“I intend to.”
For the next two days, she did exactly that.
And the problems multiplied.
A sapphire brooch carried a natural-stone certificate that did not match microscopic inclusions in the gem.
An emerald bracelet had a genuine signed mounting but several stones replaced with lower-value material.
A supposedly eighteenth-century diamond stomacher contained tiny modern machining marks invisible without magnification.
Individually, each discrepancy could have been restoration, substitution, or sloppy recordkeeping.
Together, they formed a pattern.
Someone had been removing valuable components from the collection and replacing them with convincing substitutes.
Cassian had not purchased a perfect hundred-million-dollar collection.
He had purchased a crime scene disguised as jewelry.
On Wednesday afternoon, Penelope placed four objects in a separate tray.
“These are compromised.”
Cassian stood across from her.
“How much?”
“If the original pieces and stones are gone? Fifteen to twenty million in lost value so far.
Maybe more.”
His jaw tightened.
“Who had access?”
“That question belongs to your acquisition team.”
“It now belongs to everyone.”
He reached for his phone.
Penelope stopped him with one sentence.
“Do not accuse anyone yet.”
Cassian looked at her hand, which had lifted slightly toward him, then at her face.
“Why?”
“Because whoever did this believes nobody noticed.
That is useful.”
For the first time since she had met him, Cassian looked genuinely impressed.
Penelope disliked how much she enjoyed that.
She pointed to the compromised pieces.
“If the substitutions happened before the sale, the seller may be responsible.
If they happened during transport or inventory, the problem is closer to you.
But if we announce what I found, records can disappear and stories can align.”
Cassian slowly lowered the phone.
“What do you need?”
“Original inventory photographs.
Insurance inspections.
Packing lists.
Every condition report from the last ten years.
And no one outside this room learns what I found.”
“You have them.”
That evening, boxes of records arrived.
Penelope stayed late.
Cassian stayed too.
At eleven, he set a paper bag beside her microscope.
She looked inside.
A truffle slider.
Penelope stared at him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I was told food improves cooperation.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did.
Indirectly.”
She tried not to smile and failed by a fraction.
Cassian noticed.
