“Claire, and the necklace—your skin is so fair, those rubies will look perfect on you!”
“Claire, and the SS lapel pin—nice, right? One for each of us!”
“Claire…”
He kept saying my name over and over.
If none of this had happened, I might have squealed over these presents like a giddy girl.
Even the couple’s pins I once forced him to order were now his last lifeline.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I sighed, shook my head, and sent back a single “Mm.”
Seeing I had accepted the gifts and replied, Ethan finally relaxed, convinced the storm had passed.
He glanced at Zoey lying on the bed, and a calculating glint flashed in his eyes. He had no power or connections,
but as long as he showed up at tomorrow’s exhibition with me—me, the woman who built him—the rumors would collapse.
What he wanted was the entire creative agency—an agency without me in it.
He couldn’t let me burn it down before it was in his hands.
He’d been biding his time for a very long while.
Despite everything, because I was still scheduled to attend, there weren’t many cancellations.
People love a spectacle.
But the next day, his heart leapt back into his throat.
I was late. The room buzzed with whispers.
He wiped sweat from his brow; his fists clenched.
Only when I arrived—wearing the gown and holding the leash of a golden retriever—did he finally exhale.
But then his brows knit again, eyes fixed on my chest.
Why wasn’t I wearing that pin? He wanted to demand an answer, but with all eyes on us, he forced a sunny smile and reached for my hand.
Right then, the big screen lit up.
As the footage played, the crowd erupted.
Ethan turned to look—and went white.
I ignored him, walked onto the stage, and took the mic.
I scanned the guests. My voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.
“Many of you here are industry peers, so you know exactly what you’re looking at. These are the works—and the methods—of our celebrated artist.”
“Ethan has produced popular pieces, yes. But what’s behind them?”
I clicked open a folder: all his creation contracts, the behind-the-scenes paper trail.
Another file: ghost-artist contracts—hundreds of them.
“Ethan deceived the agency for years, letting this so-called ‘shadow’ create his work. From what I found, aside from a few pieces, the rest were made by the shadow.”
“Tell me, superstar—am I slandering you?” I smiled brightly at him.
“It’s not true! Don’t listen to her—it’s all fake!”
Ethan flushed scarlet and pleaded with the audience.
They ignored him; their mutters rose up clearly enough:
“I must’ve been blind, paying for a thief’s work. Who did I think he was—some all-around prodigy? I want my money back. Call the boys and put the fear of God in him.”
“Knew he looked shifty. I only backed him for Ms. Summers’ sake. If he doesn’t return every cent, get those enforcers to break his hands.”
“What’s she doing all this for, anyway? If they go down together, she won’t get much either…”
