My mother would have stopped this. She would have fought for me, protected me from being sold off like livestock to secure Father's business deals. But she's been dead for over twenty years, and Grandmother—sweet, gentle Grandmother Brigitte, who raised me after Mother died—she never challenged Father either.
Not once.
She'd just smooth my hair and tell me it would all work out, that my father knew best. But he doesn't know best. He only knows control.
The threat in his words is clear, and heat floods my cheeks—anger and something darker.
Before I can respond, a group of art critics approaches. Their eyes light up as they recognize me.
"Miss Faulks." An older woman with a severe bun grasps my hand. "Your work on uncovering the forgery ofThe Loverswas brilliant. Simply brilliant."
"We're all so excited to see where your career takes you." Another chimes in. "The art world needs fresh eyes like yours, especially when it comes to identifying forgeries. Although we're told your discovery of fresh new artistic talent is unparalleled. We're excited to view this new artist's work."
I smile, even as my stomach sinks. If only they knew. If only Father would allow...
"Thank you. I'm honored by your kind words. This artist's work is..." I grasp the air as if seeking words. "It's simply phenomenal."
Prescott's grip on my arm tightens painfully. "Yes, Vivianne has quite the eye. It's one of the many reasons I chose her. Though I'm sure her talents will be put to better use once we're married."
Chose.As if I were a prized racehorse or a piece of art myself. Bile rises in my throat.
Would my mother have let him speak about me this way? I don't remember if, like my grandmother, she caved to my father's will, but I believe she would have stood up for me, reminded him that I have a brilliant career ahead of me, that my work matters.
I'll never know if she would've fought for me. All I have are scattered memories—her laughter, the way she sang to me at bedtime. Grandmother loved me—I know she did—but she never fought for me. She never told her son that he was wrong tocontrol every aspect of my life, wrong to arrange this marriage, wrong to treat me like property.
I used to ask her why she wouldn't stand up to him, but she'd look away, her eyes sad and distant. She's been gone for years, and I'm entirely alone.
The critics exchange glances, clearly uncomfortable with Prescott's possessive tone.
"Vivianne, might I have a word?" Dr. Phillips appears at my side, a welcome interruption.
I seize the opportunity to escape his grasp.
"If you'll excuse me." I flash an apologetic smile.
I follow Dr. Phillips to a quieter corner of the gallery. The sounds of the crowd fade to a dull murmur.
"Dr. Phillips, please, tell me more about these paintings. You can't leave me in suspense." My voice is low and urgent.
He hesitates, glancing around as if to ensure we're not overheard. "My dear, they are more perfect than the first. As a collection, they will rock the foundations of the art world. Beyond that, you have to understand that these paintings are unlike anything I've ever seen. They're something else entirely. Original, breathtaking, and..." He pauses, meeting my eyes. "Intimate."
I know. I was there.
"How intimate?"
"Nothing to be nervous about, my dear. It's just another exhibition. Shall we?"
A bell chimes, signaling the start of the unveiling. The crowd hushes, anticipation thick in the air. I make my way back to Father and Prescott, my pulse racing.
Dr. Phillips takes his place at the front of the room, the covered paintings looming behind him. The air feels charged, electric. The scent of excitement mingles with expensive perfumes and the earthier smell of canvas.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present to you a collection that will, I believe, redefine contemporary art. I give you... The Swan."
With a flourish, he pulls back the curtain covering the first painting. Gasps ripple through the crowd. I lean forward, eager to see the piece I'm already familiar with—and then I freeze.
My body, rendered in exquisite detail. The brushstrokes capture every curve and shadow with breathtaking precision. I'm posed before a roaring fire, back to the viewer, head turned just enough to hint at a profile without revealing my identity.
As Dr. Phillips unveils each subsequent painting, the shock deepens.
