The last day of the festival, Emily’s hands trembled slightly as she arranged her notes at the panel table. The festival tent buzzed with conversation. She’d agreed to this discussion about “Art and Community” weeks ago, before Julian’s threats and before she knew he’d follow her here.
“Our next question comes from the audience.” The moderator scanned the raised hands.
Julian stood in the third row. Of course he did.
“I’d like to ask Ms. Shaw about artistic integrity. Specifically about artists who exploit dying mentors for personal gain.” His voice carried that familiar edge of righteousness.
The tent went silent. Her breath caught, but she kept her eyes on Julian. No more running. No more letting him control the narrative.
“Are you asking about my work with your father, Julian? Because I’d be happy to discuss that.” She kept her voice steady.
His jaw clenched. “I’m asking about fraud. About signing your name to another artist’s work.”
Grant shifted in his chair beside her. She touched his arm lightly. This was her fight. “Your father asked me to complete three paintings in his final months.” Emily pulled Margaret’s folder from her bag. “I have his written request here, along with documentation of every session we worked together.”
“You manipulated a dying man?—”
“I was teaching full-time.” She opened the folder. “These are my class schedules, faculty meeting attendance records, and even parking receipts. I spent exactly twelve documented sessions with Franklin, all at his request.”
Julian’s face flushed. “You can’t prove?—”
“I have his written request. It’s—here.” She fumbled with the folder. “And documentation. I can prove everything. Including the fact that you first accused me of fraud six months after your father’s death. Right after learning his final works had increased in value.”
Murmurs rippled through the audience. She saw Sally in the front row, nodding encouragement.
“You’re twisting this?—”
“Your father wrote to the Art Institute three months before he died.” Her voice gained strength. “He specifically requested I complete his work. He outlined exactly what he wanted done. You received copies of all estate documents. You knew about this letter.”
Julian’s mouth opened and closed.
“You knew I was doing exactly what Franklin asked. You knew, and you destroyed my life anyway. Not because you cared about artistic integrity, but because you were angry. Angry that your father chose to spend his final months with me instead of you.”
“You don’t know anything about my relationship with my father.”
The pain in his voice almost made her falter. Almost.
“I know Franklin talked about you constantly.” She softened her tone. “He kept every article about your business success. He understood why you couldn’t visit more. The distance, your work?—”
“Stop.” Julian’s voice cracked.
“He loved you. He was proud of you. He kept a photo of you on his easel. Did you know that?”
Julian’s hands clenched at his sides. The audience had gone completely quiet.
“He asked me to finish those paintings because his hands couldn’t hold a brush anymore. Because he wanted his final vision completed. I did my best to honor that. I’m sorry you weren’t there. I’m sorry you feel excluded from his final months. But that’s not my fault.” She set down the folder.
“You had no right?—”
“I had every right.” Her voice stayed calm. “Your father gave me that right. And I won’t apologize for helping him anymore.”
Someone in the audience started clapping. Then another. The sound built slowly, spreading through the tent.
Julian’s face twisted. “This isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is.” Grant stood beside her. “You’ve harassed Emily in multiple states now. If you contact her again, we’ll file charges.”
“We?” Julian’s laugh had a bitter edge. “Let me guess. Another man fooled by her act.”
