It Started With a Heist

Chapter 16

EMMA

With an intent look, Professor Singh, the head of the Department of Education at the Museum of Modern Art, leaned closer. "Miss Lawrence, understanding how art affects people is a cornerstone of public engagement. In your view, what impact does art have on museum visitors?"

I paused, allowing the question to settle. My gaze drifted to the replicas on the opposite wall. Degas' The Ballet Class, Rembrandt's The Night Watch, Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring, and Raphael's Saint George and the Dragon. Each told its own story—a tapestry of human emotion and history.

But my gaze remained locked on Saint George and the Dragon. The knight's determination, the dragon's fury—it was a chaotic dance of opposites. A tale of good versus evil. At least, that was how it was meant to be.

As I stared at the dragon's iridescent green scales and burning eyes, I couldn't help but see myself reflected in its rage and defiance. The destruction it embodied mirrored my own life—built on deception, with each con adding another layer to my armor. But was that all I was—a dragon to be slain?

Perhaps. Maybe there was some truth to it. Maybe this was who I was—chaos in human form.

Once, I had taken pride in being the great Laverna—hailed as a legacy, revered and envied. But now, that pride felt hollow. She wasn't just a title. She was a piece of me, forged from every lie I had told, every moment I had stolen, and every choice I had made to exploit the weaknesses of others.

And if I was the dragon, then Jake was my Saint George—steadfast, armed with justice and resolve, determined to destroy everything I represented. To him, I wasn't just a thief or a liar—I was the embodiment of everything he fought against. And maybe he was right. Someone had died because of the chain reaction I had set in motion—a ripple of consequences I could never undo.

That was exactly how I felt when I got the call—a chance to interview for my dream job at the MoMA. At first, I was over the moon. It was everything I wanted. But then, that insidious voice in my head whispered the truth I couldn't shake—the life I wanted was never going to work out. Happy endings weren't for people like me. I didn't deserve them.

The voice grew louder, more relentless, until it drowned out everything else. I almost decided not to show up, convincing myself it was a cruel joke, an illusion of a life that wasn't mine to live.

And yet, here I was. Another part of me had clawed its way forward, urging me to fight, to at least try. To not give up on myself just yet.

But the voice still lingered, whispering that I was selfish, evil, irredeemable for even daring to dream of something better. For putting myself first after everything I had done.

But wasn't that what all humans did? Weren't we all driven by self-preservation, that primal instinct to fight for ourselves above all else? After all, giving up on ourselves was as hard as continuing the fight.

I looked back at the painting. The dragon wasn't dead. It writhed and hissed, and maybe its next move would have turned the tables entirely. But this moment, captured forever on canvas, showed only its weakness—its defeat.

A reminder, perhaps, that the story was only ever told from one perspective.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to focus, pushing the storm inside me aside. My gaze shifted to Professor Singh, who patiently waited for my answer.

"Art, Professor, is like a time capsule," I said. "It doesn't just preserve history; it reflects how people saw the world—how they made sense of it, or maybe even how they didn't."