The Contract With Her Father's Billionaire Rival-Chapter 95. Consequences.

As they all left the office, Alaric still couldn’t wrap his head around the whole conversation. But he was eager to understand what was going on. There were too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

The drive to the station was fast, and when they arrived, Alaric was immediately taken to Detective Franklin’s office. The tension in his chest tightened with each step they walked over there.

The first thing he saw when he opened the door were the paintings—all four of them.

He rushed over, surprise coursing through him.

"You found them," he said as he examined the paintings without touching them.

"Yes," Detective Franklin replied. There was a note of satisfaction in his voice, but his expression remained unchanged.

Alaric turned his attention to the paintings.

They looked okay, but he would have his experts examine them closely. Just to be sure.

Still, he was happy. Relieved. It was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Finally, he had found them, and he could now be on his way. The detour had cost him time and stress, but at least there was closure.

He might be back in New Orleans before the week runs out. Back in Nicolette’s arms, and in her bed.

The thought brought a wave of longing to his heart. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to smile.

"Thank you, detectives," he said, shaking both of their hands. Their work had salvaged more than just a career, it had restored a part of his soul."You’ve really saved my neck and my exhibition."

"You’re welcome, sir, but we’re just doing our jobs," the other detective said. "Ready to see Ian?"

"Sure," he nodded. His chest squeezed with curiosity.

He gave the paintings a final look before following the detectives.They walked to the back and stopped in front of a white door.

"He’s in here. Ready?" Detective Franklin asked. He held the handle, waiting for Alaric’s signal.

Alaric nodded, and the detective opened the door. The scent of the room hit him first, it smelled of antiseptic and something sour—despair, maybe.

His heart immediately dropped at Ian’s appearance. Ian had lost a lot of weight, his cheeks were hollow.

He was cuffed to the table, dressed in a dirty shirt. The fabric was wrinkled and stained.

His face had shrunk, his eyes were sunken. Every inch of him radiated exhaustion and shame.

His golden hair, once full and bouncy, was now dull and lifeless, and looked like it hadn’t been washed in days.

Alaric approached him, concern tearing at his chest. "Ian? What happened?" His voice was filled with confusion and sadness.

Ian raised his head, his expression suddenly changing as he slammed his cuffed hands on the table. The metal clanged loudly with each bang.

"I begged you not to bring him here."

What was happening?

Alaric’s mind spun as unease began to settle in, but he moved closer. "What’s going on?"

Detective Franklin cocked his head at Ian. "Should we tell Mr. Allens, or will you do the talking?"

Ian didn’t say anything. He just looked away.

"Well then, you’ve made your decision," Detective Franklin said, then turned to Alaric. "I’ll take it from the top, Mr. Allens. You might want to sit down."

Alaric nodded and pulled out one of the seats attached to the table Ian’s hands were cuffed to.

Once seated, Detective Franklin continued. "At the beginning of the investigation, most of our evidence pointed to Ian being guilty. But after we saw that video of someone else taking the painting, we shifted from viewing Ian as a suspect to seeing him as a victim."

Alaric nodded in understanding.

"During our investigation, we found the man who actually took the paintings."

Alaric blinked. "You did?"

"Yes. It was one Tony Lee, who happened to be a friend of Ian," Detective Franklin said, gesturing toward Ian, who still hadn’t raised his head.

"According to Tony, Ian paid him to steal the paintings and then dip out of town. Ian was counting on Tony leaving so he could play the victim, but as fate would have it, one of Tony’s baby mothers gave birth, and he had to stay. That was how we found Tony."

Alaric sighed, taking in everything. His stomach churned as the truth settled in. After a moment, he turned to Ian and asked, "Why?"

Ian still didn’t say anything. He just stared blankly at the table.

"From our investigation," Detective Franklin continued, "Ian was paid to steal the paintings. Because of morals or whatever, he had Tony act like him to throw us off."

Alaric didn’t know how to feel. The betrayal felt personal, intimate and unforgivable. He shook his head in disbelief. "Why steal the paintings, Ian? I... you..."

"Ian told us a man from New Orleans approached him, asking for help. According to Ian, the man wanted to bring you to Australia and keep you here for a long time."

Anger surged inside Alaric. He straightened up, his expression harder. "What the hell?" he said, his jaw clenched.

Lucian had paid Ian to take him away from New Orleans? From Nicolette?

The realization struck him like a punch to the gut.

It all made sense now.

"Ian thought stealing the paintings would bring you here for that, so he did it. " Detective Franklin finished, folding his arms.

Alaric stood up, anger mounting inside him as he faced Ian. "I can’t believe you! I gave you everything, I did everything for you so you could have a great life. You not only relapsed, ruining all the plans we made for your future.

"You also stole from me, knowing it would affect my life in New Orleans, and you connived with Lucian Crawford."

Ian raised his head and stared into Alaric’s eyes for the first time since he had arrived. His eyes widened with shock and regret.

Too late now.

"Oh, you think I wouldn’t know who that man is?" he scoffed. "I am disappointed in you Ian. I never want to see you again." His voice shook a little as he delivered his words.

He left the room, even though Ian called after him. Anger and pain raced in his veins that Ian could think and carry out such a sinister plan.

The betrayal stung so deeply.

Detective Franklin followed him. "Mr. Allens, you know who that strange man is?"

"Yes," he replied. "And I want a case opened against him." There would be consequences—starting now. "I want Lucian Crawford brought to justice. I want—"

He was interrupted as his phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, pulling it out of his pocket.

Richard was calling.

Alaric’s brow creased as he answered. He and Richard had already spoken that morning.

"Hey cou." He stepped away from the detective.

"Hey Alaric," Richard said, his voice tight.

Something was definitely wrong.

"You have to come back to New Orleans."

His heart dropped. "Why? What’s wrong?"

"It’s your dad, He had a stroke."