“Wow. Just…wow.” My brain is doing its best to process what I just saw and failing rather badly. Emotions are surging, but I can’t even decide what they are. I feel like an empty canvas that’s having buckets of paint dumped on it.
Ares is giving me a look, sensing that something is off. “What’s wrong?”
I look at the description for each work. Everything’s by… “Parker Jacoby?Are theykidding?” That talentless, brainless, shameless tart?
“You know her?” Ares says.
“Oh, I know her. Do you?”
He shakes his head.
Lucie steps forward. “She’s an up-and-coming artist,” she says helpfully. “Getting famous now. Catherine Fairchild—Barron Sterling’s art curator—recognized her talent and bought the first couple of her works, which made her a rising star. Catherine has a rep for discovering diamonds in the rough. She was the first to sponsor and promote François before he becameFrançois.”
“I see…” The more I learn, the angrier I become. Now I understand the reason Doris was so eager to have me sign the agreement. These paintings are my “trash.” The ones I created to release my emotions and “reinterpret” my nightmares per the therapists she hired. Parker is a front—she’s young and pretty enough. The public will love her.
But I’m sure most of the proceeds from the sale of the paintings I created never went directly to Parker. At best, it was a fifty-fifty split. Given how greedy Doris and Rupert are, Parker probably got much less, but she wouldn’t object too much, since impersonating an artist is still better than getting an honest job.
Besides, who could resist the lure of fame and adulation without putting in any effort?
“How much were her works sold for?” I ask.
Lucie looks at her husband. “The last one fetched two million, I think? Is that right? It made a stir in the art world. Yuna was upset because she wanted it, but didn’t want to bid quite that high. She collects because she likes art, but she also wants them for investment value.”
“Two million dollars, just for a single painting,” I murmur. “Not bad.” I’ve created so many pieces. Sketches. Thrown them haphazardly in a storage closet because I didn’t care that much about them. After all, the art experts who saw my work said I wasn’t talented. But who paid for their assessments? Doris—with my money.
If she could get me to transfer them all to her, legally, she could be wealthy, even without my trust fund.
She’s obviously decided that will be easier than trying to force me to hand over the sixty billion or force me to marry Rupert now that I already have a husband. After all, she can’t hope to win a legal fight for my money against the likes of Huxley & Webber or Highsmith, Dickson and Associates.
Doris, Doris, Doris. You stole my mom’s work and now mine. No way you stopped there. How much have you stolen from me?
“Are you all right?” Ares asks. Lucie and Seb are also looking at me with concern.
“Like my paintings?” comes a soft taunt.
Lucie and Seb start. Ares’s head swivels and he stiffens, wrapping his arm even more protectively around me. I turn and face Parker, who’s standing there with a shit-eating smile. Her arm is looped around Rupert, who’s doing his best not to glare at me—he’s greedier than his stepmom, and probably bitter he won’t be getting the sixty billion he somehow feels he deserves.
Parker looks pretty good. She’s had some professional help. Her dark brown hair is artfully curled, and she’s in a sparkling black dress that shows off her surgically enhanced cleavage and long legs. Filler has done wonders for her normally thin lips, and the makeup kicks her appearance up another notch or two. Her hazel eyes look down at me as she tilts her chin arrogantly. She’s practically daring me to say something.You can’t prove anything.
“Passionis nice, although poorly titled,” I say.Let’s see how deep she can dig her own grave. I’d bet my ovaries that she has no clue of the secret behind the paintings she dubbed the Passion Series.
She twirls her hair around a finger. Rupert scoffs. “Too bad for you that she’s the artist.”
“Watch your tone, Fage. You’re speaking to my wife.” Ares’s voice is cold enough to insta-freeze blood.
Parker clears her throat. “Have you met Catherine Fairchild?”
A brunette who was looking the other way turns to us. She’s so gorgeous that she almost doesn’t look real. Her face is perfectly symmetrical, and every feature on her is delicate. Butwhat could be a porcelain-like fragility is counterbalanced by the cool steel in her eyes that says she’s nobody’s doll. The black cocktail dress is flattering—a potato sack would be flattering on this woman—but also businesslike. Apparently Ms. Fairchild isn’t the type to mess around.
With Catherine facing us, Parker is barely noticeable. It’s an unusual situation; Parker generally likes to stay away from women who make her seem like a deformed squid by comparison. Ah, the things people do for money and fame. Bet she has lots of admirers.
“How do you do? I’m Lareina Hayworth Huxley.” I smile and extend a hand.
“Catherine Fairchild.” Her handshake is firm, her greeting warm. The smile that she gives me has enough wattage to light up half of Orange County.
“What’s your take onPassion Series Number Three?” I ask with genuine curiosity. After years of gaslighting and lies, I want an unbiased, professional opinion.
“I love the intensity of pain the colors represent. Although Parker named the six-piece setPassion, so much pain and rage just pour off the canvases, it’s like you’re under a waterfall of unadulterated emotion from the artist. It gives me the shivers to look at any of the pieces.”
