I don't remember who started the fire, but I remember the age of every pigment.
Disowned heiress? Fake.
Amnesiac art restorer? Half true.
Prime suspect in an arson case? Well... that's the first thing you got right.
The police asked why I burned the paintings I'd handled. I couldn't explain, because the secret behind that forgery was deadlier than the fire itself.
They think I've lost my memory. Good.
The real culprit thinks I've lost my memory. Even better.
All I have to do is lower my head, stay quiet, and play the helpless, fragile heiress, then use these eyes that can distinguish 160,000 shades to watch for the moment he slips up.
After all, the thing prey is best at has always been... biting back.
This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any similarities are purely coincidental. Do not imitate.
