?Chapter 81:


    The entire panel of judges, much like Luca, were devoted enthusiasts of oil painting. They shared his peculiar passion. In their world, prestige and social ties held little sway—what truly mattered was the art itself.


    That was why no one cared that Luciano was the president of the Calligraphers and Painters Association, or that Paige had connections to Merritt. All that mattered was which painting genuinely stood apart.


    Therefore, when Luca expressed such unrestrained admiration for Lonely Sunset, the other judges took notice. One by one, they drifted toward the piece, their eyes narrowing with curiosity and quiet reverence.


    Rosa was a legend—an innovator whose work these judges had studied for decades. And Lonely Sunset carried echoes of her unmistakable style. It seemed likely Elliana was a devoted student of Rosa’s craft, perhaps emting her technique in admiration. That might’ve been what first captured Luca’s attention—what left him so awestruck.


    But as the judges brought out their magnifying sses and subjected the painting to close inspection, a hush fell over the room. “Hold on… This can’t be,” one of them murmured, voice wavering.


    They exchanged astonished looks and then turned as one to face Elliana.


    These were not just any judges—they were some of the most respected authorities in oil painting, regrly called upon to authenticate masterpieces. And now, each of them had arrived at the same, almost unthinkable conclusion. It was an original Rosa. Since Elliana had painted it live—on camera—there was only one possible exnation. Elliana was Rosa.


    What followed was nothing short of surreal. Just like Luca, the rest of the judges surged toward Elliana, their expressions a blend of awe and exhration as they bowed with deep reverence. They echoed Luca’s question with near breathless wonder. “What inspired you to submit a piece to the Starry Oil Painting Competition?”


    Thepetition was meant for rising talents—for neers. For Rosa, a globally celebrated master, to enter such a contest was inconceivable. It was like a world champion stepping into a local amateur ring. The idea was so oundish that it defied logic. The judges’ reverent reaction sent the audience into a frenzy.


    “What’s going on?”


    L?????????? с????????????? ??α?n??ν??????．?????


    “What’s so special about Elliana’s painting?”


    “Why are they treating her like royalty?”


    Confusion rippled through the crowd, but no one was more lost than Luciano. The sense of being utterly in the dark gnawed at him like a parasite. Frustration overtook him, shattering his carefully curated poise. “What the hell are you old geezers doing?” he bellowed, abandoning all sense of decorum.


    Gasps echoed throughout the hall. No one could believe what they were witnessing—Luciano, usuallyposed and dignified, reduced to an angry, red-faced caricature.


    Luca scoffed and turned away, letting him unravel in public without a shred of sympathy.


    The other judges saw it clearly now. Luciano wasn’t just clueless about oil painting—he was a fraud. He had been abusing his title, stifling true talent while elevating his own protégés. This kind of petty tyrant was everything they despised. Luca’s earlier disdain now made perfect sense.


    With unspoken agreement, the judges turned their backs on Luciano, and though Luciano burned with the need to understand what was happening, their silence was deafening—intentional, calcted, and absolute.


    “You… You’ve crossed the line!” Luciano choked on his own fury, his jaw clenched so tightly that it looked ready to snap. His hands trembled at his sides, veins bulging, face flushed an rming crimson—he was moments from imploding.


    Surrounded by the cold, imprable silence of the judges, Luciano exploded, “You dare insult me—the president of the Calligraphers and Painters Association? Then you insult every artist under its banner! This is outright insolence. Do you all want to be cklisted from the art world?”


    The room held its breath, but Paige saw opportunity in the chaos. With Luciano unraveling in real time, she slid in like a vulture sensing weakness, her expression painted with faux concern. “Please,” she said sweetly, cing a steadying hand on Luciano’s arm, her voice just loud enough to carry. “Let’s not make a scene.”


    Then, she pivoted, eyes shing as she faced the judges, her voice suddenly razor-sharp. “I’m shocked. Truly. I never thought the Starry Oil Painting Competition—a ce where rising talent could shine—would be this tainted. An entire panel reduced to puppets, bought off to champion a fraud.”


    She didn’t say Elliana’s name. She didn’t need to. The usation hung in the air like smoke from a fire everyone could smell.


    “You, the revered pirs of this industry, falling over yourselves for some no-name. Or is it because she has the Evans family pulling strings behind the curtain?” In Paige’s mind, the final blow hadnded.


    She pictured headlines, scandal, Elliana’s reputation in tatters.


    But reality didn’t bend to her narrative.


    The judges didn’t flinch. These weren’t amateurs easily rattled by cheap theatrics—they were titans, long weathered against storms far more vicious than this.


    They looked at her not with anger, but with quiet disbelief. And something worse—pity.


    A slow, amused grin crept across Luca’s face as he stepped forward, his voice a velvet dagger. “The only fraud in this room is Luciano.”


    .


    .


    .