?Chapter 83:
Luciano’s mind was a storm of static—thoughts collided, fragmented, and then vanished before he could grasp them. He could see, hear, feel everything, but none of it made sense. His body stood frozen, his brain adrift in fog. He stared at Elliana like she was an illusion. Her? This in, forgettable woman was Rosa—the legendary Rosa he had worshipped from afar, name-dropped in speeches, and exalted as the pinnacle of artistic brilliance? Unthinkable. How could someone like Elliana be the same person whose work had hung in international galleries, whose brushstrokes had inspired movements?
Luciano reeled. His years in the art world meant nothing now. He hadn’t painted a thing in his life, yet had wed his way up to the presidency of the Calligraphers and Painters Association through charm, ttery, and carefully chosen alliances. Not talent. Never talent. And now, all of it was crashing down.
If he had known from the beginning—if he had even suspected Elliana was Rosa—he would’ve bowed at her feet, flung open doors for her, begged to be her apprentice. Just one nod from her could’ve inted his reputation tenfold. His status, his power, his reach—it would’ve all soared. But instead, he’d insulted her. Mocked her. Rejected her work with smug contempt. He hadn’t missed an opportunity. He’d set fire to the very bridge that could have carried him to immortality in the art world. And it was all Paige’s fault.
Fury simmered beneath his shock. He had backed Paige to cozy up to Merritt’s wealth and influence. He had imagined cash flowing in, exhibitions in his name, his legacy carved in gold. Instead, he was standing in the wreckage—humiliated, exposed, and circling the drain. His presidency? As good as gone. His standing in the art world? Shattered. Worse than being ruined, he was on the verge of bing a punchline—a cautionary tale whispered at galleries and gs, a fallen fraudughed out of every room he entered.
Though Luciano’s thoughts were screaming copse, his pride refused to yield. His voice, sharp and defiant, cut through the tension. “There’s no way this nobody is Rosa! This is a setup—you’re all conspiring to make me look like a fool!”
The judges had confirmed, without hesitation, that Elliana was none other than Rosa, the elusive icon of the oil painting world.
Paige, struck by the weight of it, staggered backward, her knees nearly buckling. She gripped the edge of the table for bnce, wide-eyed, and then turned her gaze to Luciano. She silently begged him to pull out ast-minute miracle. Anything.
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But Luciano looked anything butposed. Desperation clung to him like sweat as heshed out, wild-eyed and cornered. “What proof do you even have that Elliana is Rosa?” he shouted, his voice cracking. “You can’t just p a legendary name on some random amateur and expect us to swallow it!”
To the audience below, the scene was equal parts surreal and pathetic. The Starry Oil Painting Competition’s judging panel wasn’t just a group of experts—it was a cross-section of the Ublento art establishment. Their authority was irond. Since they said Elliana was Rosa, then she was Rosa.
Luciano’s outburst wasn’t righteous indignation. It was a tantrum. A drowning man iling in public. The judges didn’t even bother replying. Their silence said it all—he wasn’t worth the energy.
That was when Clement rose. “Let me verify the authenticity!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd as Clement stepped forward.
The Starry Oil Painting Competition was the museum’s crown jewel, and Clement had attended every final round since its inception. He’d expected tonight to be just like any other—anointing fresh talent, celebrating youthful ambition. What he hadn’t expected was all the drama that was unfolding before him.
Hearing Elliana’s name spoken—confirmed by the panel as Rosa—had nearly made Clement drop his ss. He’d needed a moment. Several, in fact, to wrap his head around what he’d just heard. Finally, he snapped out of his shock.
Dressed in a crisp ck suit and tie, Clement exuded a quiet authority. Each step he took toward the stage was deliberate, heavy with expectation.
Everyone knew Clement was a devoted Rosa schr. He had studied her works obsessively, analyzing her brushwork, color choices, even the way she signed her name. If anyone could speak on the authenticity of Lonely Sunset, it was him.
Reaching the stage, Clement gave Elliana a polite nod, greeted the judges with professional reverence, and epted the mic from the stunned host. Then, he turned to Luciano, voice calm and precise. “If I personally verify Lonely Sunset, will you ept the result, Mr. Scott?” Clement’s neutrality gave his words weight. He had no stake in this scandal—only a devotion to truth and art.
Luciano, sensing the room closing in, gave a hasty nod. “Fine. Yes.”
“Good,” Clement replied, allowing a small, knowing smile to tug at the corner of his lips. He then turned to the crowd. “Anyone here object to me taking the lead on this?”
“No objections!”
“Let’s hear it, Mr. Morgan! Give us the truth!”
The audience erupted in encouragement. They trusted Clement. If he gave the word, it would be final.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Clement turned to Lonely Sunset. He approached the painting with reverence, as though he were standing before a sacred relic. Then, like the judges before him, he produced a magnifying ss from his coat pocket and leaned in. He began his examination—inch by inch, stroke by stroke.
The room held its breath. No one dared to speak. Even the smallest sound felt like an interruption.
Clement took his time. He wasn’t rushing for drama—this was how he worked. Thorough. Precise. Meticulous. And then, finally, he straightened.
The pause was unbearable. Anticipation tightened like a noose.
The entire hall waited, but Clement didn’t speak. Not right away.
Instead, he ced the magnifying ss down with careful precision, then adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket and smoothed back his neatlybed hair…
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