Serena pov
The opulent room—drenched in gold trims, marble floors, and the kind of old wealth that smelled faintly of dust and arrogance—was thick with a tense, expectant silence. It vibrated under the weight of unspoken judgment.
A hush rolled through the crowd, followed by the serpentine rustling of voices slithering from one ear to another.
"WHISPER, WHISPER."
I caught the words as sharply as if they were hurled at me.
"So Serenity's painting turned out to be fake, after all," someone sneered behind a gloved hand, eyes glinting with malicious delight. "She had no proof in the first place."
I saw Lady Serenity—a vision in her deep red dress—standing stiffly, chin slightly lifted, yet her shoulders revealed the tremble she was trying so hard to restrain. Her family name carried weight, but right now, the crowd's suspicion was crushing.
A man's voice, tight with worry, rose above the venomous whispers.
"Oh dear… what now? This probably wasn't the result Lady Serenity expected when she invited all the reporters…"
The sea of guests shifted, rippling with judgment. Even their shadows felt accusatory.
A reporter near the front row wore a smug expression so deep it was practically carved into his face. His pen scratched eagerly across his notepad. Each stroke looked like it was drawing blood.
"Especially that reporter from McKinsey," someone muttered, not bothering to hide their resentment. "That smug look on his face... he's ecstatic that he's got something else to criticize about the Serenity family. McKinsey's always publishing articles that disparage the Serenity Hotel. I shudder to imagine how far they'll go with this…"
A low, uneasy murmur swelled in agreement.
I felt the pressure of the moment coil around my ribs, but I stepped forward, spine straight, voice honed like a blade.
"Ahem!"
I raised my chin.
"Please settle down, everyone. I have more to add."
The noise thinned out, but the tension thickened, dense enough to taste. All eyes snapped to me—some anxious, some gleeful, some hungry for scandal.
I spoke clearly, allowing each syllable to land with intention.
"The results of the authentication are as follows. The painting on the left was confirmed… TO BE GENUINE."
Shock rippled through the room.
A gasp.
A sharp inhale.
A stunned blink.
The atmosphere instantly wavered between disbelief and confusion.
I continued, steady as marble.
"I would also like to announce the authentication results of the painting on the right, which is owned by the Serenity family."
A flicker of emotion crossed Lady Serenity's face—a fragile, flickering flame of dread and hope colliding.
I let the suspense stretch, the entire hall suspended in breathless anticipation.
"Once again," I said slowly, "let me reiterate that these paintings were authenticated by the Royal Art Association's official authenticators and experts, using a comprehensive five-step process."
At that, Lady Serenity's expression was captured in a perfect, unguarded close-up—a moment of pure shock, bewilderment bursting across her features like a shattering mirror.
"?!"
I delivered the final revelation:
"The Ballerina in the Serenity family's possession… was ALSO CONFIRMED TO BE A GENUINE PAINTING BY MARIANNE DESSAINT."
The room erupted.
"MURMUR, MURMUR, MURMUR."
Confusion.
Disbelief.
A kind of electrified chaos.
A reporter jolted to his feet, his earlier smugness now replaced by pure bafflement.
"THEN… are you saying that both paintings are authentic?"
I held my gaze firm, letting the truth settle like a stone dropped into still water—sending shockwaves through every circle of influence in the room.
The implication was clear: the Serenity family's painting was genuine, just like the other one.
The attempt to discredit them had backfired spectacularly, revealing a surprise that would surely change everything.
---
The room brimmed with confusion, disbelief, and a kind of breathless panic that no amount of etiquette could hide. Guests exchanged looks—wide-eyed, sharp, incredulous—while the pressure in the air curled like a hot iron around every whispered word.
One of the authenticators stepped forward, clutching the documents with both hands as though they might steady him. His voice trembled at the edges, attempting to project confidence he didn't quite possess.
"THAT'S CORRECT," he announced, each syllable dropping heavily into the charged atmosphere. "This isn't something we expected either, so we… very carefully repeated the authentication process."
He swallowed.
"And ended up with the same conclusion."
The crowd shifted uneasily. The rustling sounded like an oncoming storm.
"We will now distribute the authentication report. As you can see in the report…"
He continued, guiding them through a bizarre series of facts that overturned every established art principle.
"…Marianne Dessaint worked alone, without pupils or assistants. And given the form of the artist's signature… the manufacturer of the paints… the age of both pieces… the artist's unique brushstrokes… and so on…"
He shook his head, almost in disbelief at his own findings.
"All these details are identical in both paintings, which is why—"
A sharp, frustrated voice sliced through his explanation.
"It's unheard of for an artist to leave behind two identical paintings. I cannot accept these results."
A wave of tension slammed through the room. People weren't just confused now—they were angry. Their expectations, their assumptions, their desire for scandal—none of it had been satisfied. The confusion felt personal, like an insult to their expertise, their status, their pride.
And in the middle of it stood me.
Lady Serenity.
The woman in the deep red dress.
I felt heat bloom across my cheeks—part outrage, part relief, part humiliation. The confirmation of my painting's authenticity should have been a triumphant moment. A vindication. I had been so sure of it that I invited reporters, critics, and rivals to witness my victory.
And yes… my painting was real.
But the problem—the shock—the humiliation—was that hers was real too.
The woman with the dark hair and fierce eyes.
My rival.
The one who had orchestrated the entire press conference.
My initial scheme to expose her as a fraud hadn't simply failed.
It had detonated in my face.
Now she stood taller than ever, elevated to my equal—no, positioned as though she had orchestrated my downfall instead of the other way around. The art world was spinning out of my grip.
But to think… to think hers would be genuine as well.
Is that why she went to the trouble of inviting all these reporters?
Then she smiled.
A small, knowing smile.
One that carried more weight, more triumph, and more quiet, cutting menace than any public declaration could have.
My blood ran cold.
"The authentication results are difficult to accept if you're only focused on determining which of the two pieces is genuine," she said, her voice calm, controlled, almost gentle—but with the bite of a blade hidden beneath every word.
Then she lifted her gaze, pinning me directly.
Effortlessly commanding the room.
Silencing it.
"I didn't expect both of us to be able to walk out of this room with our heads held high."
A murmur rippled through the audience. Cameras tilted toward me. Reporters leaned forward. Phones rose.
Then, with surgical precision, she delivered the blow.
"What do you think, Ms. Serenity? Do you accept the results of the authentication?"
It was a trap.
A perfectly laid trap.
She wanted me to bend.
To acknowledge her painting as equal to mine.
To do it publicly, in front of the very people I'd gathered to witness her defeat.
The spotlight was burning.
Humiliating.
Unavoidable.
My lungs felt tight.
My pulse thumped painfully against my ribs.
The weight of every stare in the room pressed against my skin like needles.
I imagined refusing.
I imagined fighting back.
But I knew—everyone knew—that I had lost the moment those two reports matched.
I opened my mouth.
"WHAT?"
The word tore out of me—raw, startled, indignant.
A reflexive recoil from the corner she had expertly backed me into.
But I had no escape.
I swallowed, tasting bitterness.
Tasting defeat.
The only answer I could give—the only answer that allowed me even a shred of dignity—fell from my lips.
"…I do."
She didn't look surprised.
Not even pleased.
Just… satisfied.
As though she had expected this outcome all along.
The dark-haired woman maintained her calm, unyielding stare.
"Yes… …I do."
My voice echoed hers.
My acceptance cemented her victory.
And the room erupted into chaos once again.
The battle for authenticity had ended—not with a winner, but in a shocking, impossible tie.
But the war between us?
The next conflict?
It would be far, far more brutal.
My rival's demand that I accept the authentication results—a result that confirmed both paintings were genuine—settled over the room like a suffocating fog.
A tie.
A tie.
The kind of outcome that didn't just defy probability; it mocked the very foundation of art scholarship.
Reporters exchanged glances. Collectors leaned forward, clutching their programs with whitening knuckles. Some of the guests looked downright offended, as though the paintings themselves had personally betrayed them.
But I, the dark-haired woman—the one who had orchestrated this entire event—knew the truth.
Science alone was never going to be enough.
Not when the truth of art was rooted in people, in stories… in history.
I lifted my chin, letting silence sharpen the weight of my next words.
"But it is perfectly understandable," I said, voice cutting clean through the tension, "if you know the history of this painting."
The shift in the room was immediate.
Cameras steadied.
Eyes narrowed with sudden interest.
Even the more skeptical reporters leaned in as though sensing blood.
The history of this painting?
Their expressions asked the question before their mouths could.
Fine. I would answer it.
"She began painting," I said gently, "when an art teacher who visited the orphanage noticed how talented she was. He gave art lessons to the children, and he nurtured her skill from the moment he saw the spark in her hands."
A murmur of surprise echoed through the crowd.
"But before she could truly establish herself in the art world," I continued softly, "she died of a chronic illness."
The tragic truth floated over the room—quiet, reverent, and grounding. The glamorous chaos of the present faded just long enough for the audience to glimpse Marianne Dessaint as she truly was: a gifted orphan girl with fleeting time.
Then I brought forth the part of the story that mattered most.
"My mother," I said, "was one of Marianne Dessaint's earliest patrons. This painting was commissioned by my mother as a gift to me."
A ripple went through the gallery.
Some guests gasped.
Others whispered furiously.
A flashback unfolded in my mind—a memory as luminous as the painting itself:
My mother, a beautiful blonde woman with a warm, soft smile, bending over a small, dark-haired girl—me—who stared up at her with wide eyes burning with joy.
She said her mother had directly commissioned this painting.
It wasn't a claim.
It was provenance.
Irrefutable and intimate.
I let the truth hang in the air, each second adding another layer of context and authority to my side of the narrative.
Then, with perfect timing, I struck the final note.
"I'd like to invite a witness who can provide more context."
Lady Serenity stiffened instantly in her seat—her spine straightening, her fingers locking onto the armrests. The way her eyes darted toward the doors betrayed her fear far more clearly than any words could.
A hush spread through the room.
Then:
CREAK.
The massive wooden door at the back of the hall swung open, its long groan echoing like an omen.
Her inner thoughts were practically screaming across her features:
A witness?
Who could she have brought?!
Then she saw him.
Her breath hitched.
Her pupils constricted.
"CHARLIN… THE COURT PAINTER?" she blurted out, half-standing in disbelief.
An elderly man stepped into the room, leaning on a cane. Age had bent his frame but not his dignity. A young woman supported him gently, guiding him past the threshold as every eye in the room followed.
Despite his frailty, his presence commanded something deeper than respect—
It commanded reverence.
He halted before the crowd and bowed, the movement slow but profoundly dignified.
I stepped beside him, my voice calm, steady, and respectful.
"This is Mr. Charlin," I announced. "You all know him as the Court Painter of Meuracevia… as well as the teacher who taught Marianne Dessaint how to paint when she was living at the orphanage."
Gasps rippled outward like shockwaves.
Lady Serenity's face had gone pale.
I finished the introduction with a final, decisive blow.
"I invited him here as he said he was willing to speak the truth on his honor as a court painter—
and out of love for his dear student."
The shift in the room was seismic.
The tide had turned.
The presence of Marianne Dessaint's own teacher—her mentor, her guide—would explain the existence of two identical paintings.
And more importantly…
It would prove which painting carried the artist's true heart, intention, and devotion.
Finally tipping the scales in my favor.
Silence settled over the gallery so thickly it felt almost physical—like velvet draped over every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper that dared to rise. All eyes were fixed on the elderly man who now stood at the center of the unfolding storm.
Mr. Charlin, Court Painter of Meuracevia, straightened with dignity, his years visible in his posture but not in his voice. When he spoke, it resonated deeply—calm, warm, and unwavering, as though the truth itself flowed through him.
"Years ago," he began, "I became Marianne's teacher… and I stayed in touch with her even after she left the orphanage."
A subtle tremor passed through the audience. They understood what it meant for someone of his stature to speak so freely, so personally.
I—standing just beside him—felt my pulse steady.
This was the moment everything had been building toward.
Mr. Charlin continued, his tone softening as memory carried him back through the years.
"One day, she came to see me," he said. "She told me she owed a great debt of gratitude to the person who had become her first patron… and that she wanted to gift her with a painting. But the patron insisted on compensating her for her work and gave her a large sum of money."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The idea of a young, unknown artist receiving such support was astonishing.
The old painter's expression warmed with fondness.
"While Marianne had sold a few paintings by then, this was her first patron—and the first time she'd received payment before completing the piece. She was both excited and nervous. I'm sure those emotions made her hesitate before picking up a brush."
His gaze drifted to me, lingering with gentle recognition.
"I'm sure she didn't want to disappoint her patron… as she was one of the first people who believed in Marianne and her art."
A soft ache bloomed in my chest. My mother… always her greatest champion.
"But the hefty payment made her feel anxious," he continued. His fingers lightly tapped the table beside him, where a simple teacup rested. "She came to see me because she wanted to do a good job for her patron, but she was having trouble painting."
There it was.
The missing piece.
The reason for the impossible, identical paintings.
"And so," Mr. Charlin said, looking directly at the sea of stunned faces, "I advised her… TO DO A PRACTICE PAINTING FIRST."
Gasps echoed through the room.
A vivid flashback materialized in everyone's imagination:
A young Marianne Dessaint, hair tied back, brow furrowed, pouring her soul into broad, earnest brushstrokes on an untouched canvas.
"I told her she'd feel less pressured if she considered it a painting for herself instead of a gift for someone else," he went on. "This is a method many artists use when anxiety interferes with their work."
The revelation fell like a perfectly placed final stroke on a canvas—clear, undeniable, transformative.
The crowd understood.
The authenticators understood.
Lady Serenity understood.
There weren't two forgeries or two originals borne of scandal—
There were simply two paintings created by the same frightened, hopeful young artist.
One was the official commissioned piece.
The other was a complete, identical practice version created to soothe her nerves.
Both genuine.
Both by Marianne Dessaint.
The shock reverberated through every person in the hall. Scholars shifted uncomfortably; reporters scribbled as though their pens might catch fire; collectors exchanged looks, realizing the entire landscape of Marianne Dessaint's legacy was being rewritten right before them.
But the most important question remained.
Now that the truth had been laid bare, and the impossible had become understandable—
Which painting was the original commission…
and which was the practice piece?
All eyes turned to Mr. Charlin.
The next step would be for him to reveal the answer—
a revelation that would determine whose painting carried the true emotional weight, the true intention, the true meaning behind Marianne Dessaint's art.
The room held its breath, poised on the edge of that decisive truth.
A hush fell so deep over the chamber it seemed to swallow the very light from the chandeliers. Every soul—reporters, collectors, nobles, scholars—leaned forward ever so slightly as Mr. Charlin resumed his testimony. His voice, calm yet commanding, rippled through the air like thunder disguised as velvet.
He had laid the groundwork: Marianne Dessaint, overwhelmed by the gravity of her first commission, had painted two masterpieces—identical down to the pressure of her brush, down to the tremor of her emotion, down to the flourish of her delicate signature.
"And after several months," he said, the weight of memory evident in his tone, "Marianne finished two paintings. She told me she'd made them practically identical to each other, down to the signature."
A ripple ran through the audience.
"She said the first painting could very well turn out better than the second," he continued. "So I told her she could continue working on both and choose whichever she felt truly represented her intent. Whichever she wished to entrust to her patron."
A collective inhale shivered through the room.
This was it—the hinge on which everything turned.
The distinction between practice and commission.
Between artistic rehearsal and artistic covenant.
Between possession and provenance.
"So I asked her," Mr. Charlin said, each word landing with the precision of a verdict, "which painting she ultimately gave to her patron. And she told me… it was the second."
Gasps.
Hands flying to mouths.
Pens freezing mid-air.
And me—Lady Serenity, clad in crimson—felt my breath catch in my throat as a scorching, uncontrollable heat surged up my neck and across my cheeks.
"!!!"
My entire face was aflame.
The original.
The true commission.
The painting imbued with the emotional sincerity of a young Marianne Dessaint…
was not the one defended with arrogance earlier by the dark-haired woman.
It was mine.
Mr. Charlin did not pause to soften the blow.
"And the first," he said, "was a practice painting. So she left it in her studio."
The words cracked through the room like a whip.
My rival's composure shattered. Her expression hardened into a cold, lethal fury—jaw clenched tight, brows taut, eyes wide with the cornered rage of someone seeing their world collapse.
Reporters dove into their notebooks with frantic energy—
SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE SCRIBBLE
—the sound a chorus of her impending defeat.
Then, as if unveiling the final stroke on this masterpiece of truth, Mr. Charlin reached inside his jacket. He withdrew a faded, timeworn letter carefully sealed, bearing all t