Chapter 7
698words
His eyes promised violence.
I lifted the microphone, my voice carrying crystal clear through the gallery's perfect acoustics.
"Good evening. I am Lady Night."
"Tonight, I'd like to share a story with you. A story of love, control, and annihilation."
"Once there was a gifted artist who fell in love with a powerful man. He built her a golden cage and called it 'protection.'"
"He clipped her wings, forcing her to follow the path he designed. He called this arrangement 'love.'"
"When the artist became pregnant, she believed this child would mark their new beginning. Then the man's true obsession returned from abroad."
"To clear the path for his obsession, the man let his own child die. He told the artist it was merely an accident."
"The artist fled. Shortly after, the man became engaged to his obsession, who quickly became pregnant."
"What the man never knew: on the day the artist left him, she lost another child. With that innocent blood, she placed a curse upon them both."
My voice remained detached, as though narrating a stranger's tragedy.
Below me, the crowd had erupted into frantic whispers.
Every gaze darted between me and Alexander, whose complexion had turned corpse-gray.
Alexander Grant was no stranger to European high society.
Young, brilliant, and notoriously ruthless—a rising force in global finance.
His upcoming "wedding of the century" to Claire Lawrence, heiress to the Lawrence billions, had dominated social pages for months.
Now my story had thrust him into the center of a scandal that would devour him whole.
"The conclusion of this story hangs before you—'Sacrifice.'"
I gestured to the massive screen behind me, which displayed a high-definition close-up of the canvas.
"The blue gemstone at the heart of the blood rose is called 'cornflower blue.' It once belonged to the artist's mother—a memorial brooch. The man pried it from its setting, reset it as a pendant, and presented it to his obsession."
"The blood-red rose represents the artist's second lost child. This painting stands as memorial to both—her murdered children and her murdered love."
As I finished, the gallery exploded into chaos.
"My God, is she saying what I think she is?"
"Grant's ex-wife was an artist, wasn't she?"
"No wonder these paintings feel so haunted—they're literal crime scenes!"
Alexander could contain himself no longer.
He shoved through the crowd, stormed the stage, and wrenched the microphone from my grip.
"ENOUGH!" he snarled, eyes wild with fury. "Vivian, haven't you caused enough damage? Must you drag us both through the mud?"
"Ugly?" I laughed coldly. "Now you're concerned with appearances? When I hemorrhaged alone while you celebrated Claire's birthday, where was this concern for ugliness?"
"When you desecrated my dead mother's brooch to adorn your mistress, where was your sense of decency?"
"When your family and friends savaged my reputation online while you watched in silence, where was your disgust then?"
With each accusation, the blood drained further from his face.
"I never—" he stammered. "Claire's pendant wasn't—"
"Wasn't what?" I cut him off. "Wasn't stolen by your own hands? Wasn't replaced with a worthless replica? Swear it, Alexander. Look me in the eyes and swear you didn't."
He stared at me, lips quivering, utterly speechless.
Because every word was true.
At that moment, Ethan appeared on stage flanked by two uniformed officers.
"Mr. Grant." Ethan's voice carried the precise chill of legal proceedings. "My client, Ms. Vivian Shaw, is formally charging you with theft of personal property and criminal negligence resulting in wrongful death."
Alexander gaped at Ethan, then turned to me in disbelief.
"Vivian, have you lost your mind? You're pressing charges?"
"Yes." I met his gaze unflinchingly. "I warned you—some debts demand payment. It's time to settle your accounts."
The officers moved forward, handcuffs glinting under the gallery lights.
"Mr. Grant, you'll need to come with us."
Camera flashes exploded like lightning, immortalizing the business titan's most devastating moment.
As they led him away, his eyes never left mine—filled with shock, rage, and something else I couldn't quite name.
Perhaps it was regret.
But it was far too late for that.
