“No. A man who recognizes truth when he sees it. Who knows what it costs to create authentic work. And who won’t let bullies destroy good people.”
More applause. Emily saw Winnie near the tent entrance, arms crossed, looking like she’d bet money on this exact outcome.
“You want to talk about exploitation?” An older woman stood in the fifth row. “My gallery dropped me after anonymous complaints about what they called my controversial work. Turned out to be a rival artist. These baseless accusations happen all the time.”
“My nephew lost his teaching position over fabricated plagiarism charges.” A man called out. “The truth came out eventually, but the damage was done.”
“That’s—yes, these are important issues, but perhaps we should—” The moderator leaned into her microphone.
Julian backed toward the aisle. His grand confrontation had become something else entirely. A conversation about false accusations. About the cost of public shaming. About community support versus mob mentality.
“Julian,” Emily called after him. He paused but didn’t turn. “Your father’s last painting. The sunset over water. He said it reminded him of a fishing trip you took together when you were twelve. He talked about that day all the time.”
Julian’s shoulders sagged. Then he was gone, pushing out of the tent into the afternoon sun, disappearing into the crowd.
Emily’s legs buckled. She dropped into her chair, hands shaking now that the adrenaline was draining away. Not from fear, but from finally saying it all out loud.
The moderator was saying something about taking a break. People were standing, talking in clusters. The tent buzzed with energy, but it felt distant. Muffled.
“You okay?” Grant’s hand found hers under the table, and his thumb brushed across her knuckles.
She squeezed his fingers and tried to answer, but no words came out.
“Come on.” Grant stood, still holding her hand, and guided her toward the side exit of the tent.
Outside, a kid was screaming about dropped ice cream. Normal festival chaos. Grant led her around the back to an alley between buildings, away from the crowds and the glaring sun. She leaned against the side of a building and sucked in deep breaths.
“Hey.” Grant stepped in front of her. “You with me?”
She nodded, still not trusting her voice.
“That was incredible.” His hands came up to her shoulders, steady and warm. “What you did in there. Standing up to him. Emily, that was?—”
“I was so scared.” The words came out shaky. She laughed, but it sounded wrong.
“You didn’t look scared. You looked fearless.”
“I was terrified.” She met his eyes finally. “But I was so tired of being afraid. So tired of letting him make me small.”
Grant’s hands slid down her arms. He didn’t let go. “You’re not small. You never were.”
“I…” The words just wouldn’t come to her.
He reached over and tilted up her face. “Emily. Look at me.”
She did. His blue eyes were intense, certain.
“You are one of the most talented artists I’ve ever met. Your work has emotion and depth that most people spend their whole lives trying to achieve. Franklin saw that. I see it. Everyone who sees your paintings sees it.”
She looked directly into his eyes. “You stayed.” The words came out before she could stop them. “In there. You stayed beside me.”
Grant’s expression softened. “Of course I stayed.”
“Daniel didn’t. The scandal hit, and he filed for divorce within a month. Said he couldn’t be associated with that kind of controversy. That he had an image to protect.” The bitterness in her voice surprised her. “He didn’t even ask if it was true. He just assumed I’d done something wrong and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.”
Grant’s jaw tightened. “Then he’s a fool.”
“Maybe. But I thought... I guess I thought that’s what people do. When things get hard. When staying gets complicated.”
