Chapter 1
The private art gallery was bathed in brilliant, natural cinematic lighting, entirely devoid of any yellow tint or warm filters. Crisp, neutral white light cascaded from the high ceilings, illuminating the vibrant, bright colors of the massive oil canvases lining the pristine walls. The room hummed with the sophisticated chatter of elite guests and wealthy art buyers, their smooth American accents echoing off the polished marble floors. Men in sharp, tailored suits and women in elegant formal evening attire glided across the gallery, admiring the exhibition.
At the absolute center of the room stood Camellia. At thirty-five years old, she was a vision of orchestrated perfection. She wore a breathtaking, deep crimson evening gown that clung perfectly to her figure, her fair and rosy skin glowing flawlessly beneath the gallery lights. Expensive diamond earrings caught the crisp illumination with her every movement, and a massive, blinding engagement ring weighed heavily on her left hand.
"Your use of shadow is simply extraordinary, Camellia," a wealthy art buyer remarked, admiring the centerpiece of the room. It was a stunningly realistic, larger-than-life painted portrait of her fiancé. "You have captured his essence perfectly."
"Thank you, Richard," Camellia laughed, the sound bright and musical. "He is a very difficult subject to pin down, but I poured my heart into every single brushstroke."
Hidden in the periphery, standing near a wooden demonstration easel holding a blank canvas, Mavis Fairbourne remained perfectly still. At twenty-five, the housemaid possessed an effortless, breathtaking beauty that rivaled any silver-screen movie star. She wore a fitted black maid dress, a starched white apron, sensible flat shoes, and a delicate white lace headband resting beautifully in her hair. Her fair, rosy complexion flushed with a painful mixture of anxiety and desperate longing. Resting on the worktable beside her were several expensive brushes, a wooden palette, and a cup of murky rinse water. There were no readable signatures or labels anywhere in sight. In her trembling hands, she tightly clutched a rough charcoal portrait sketch.
Camellia politely excused herself from the buyers and marched purposefully toward the demonstration worktable, her high heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Her radiant smile vanished the moment she stepped out of the public's immediate earshot.
"What do you think you are doing standing out here, Mavis?" Camellia demanded, her voice a low, venomous hiss. "I told you to remain in the catering halls."
"I was only clearing the empty champagne glasses, Miss Camellia," Mavis replied, her voice trembling slightly as she instinctively pulled the sketch closer to her chest.
"And what exactly is that in your hands?" Camellia snapped. Before Mavis could react or step away, Camellia lunged forward and snatched the charcoal sketch from her delicate fingers. She stared at the masterful, intricate lines of the drawing, her fair face twisting with an ugly, consuming jealousy.
"Please, give it back," Mavis begged, taking a half-step forward. "It is just a practice sketch."
"You have absolutely no right to draw him," Camellia hissed, her eyes narrowing into cold slits. Without a single second of hesitation, Camellia tore Mavis’s portrait sketch violently in half and threw both torn pieces onto the polished floor.
May you like
Mavis gasped, dropping to her knees to retrieve the ruined paper. As she reached out, Camellia grabbed the cup of murky rinse water from the worktable. With a cruel flick of her wrist, Camellia tipped the dirty water directly over Mavis’s outstretched hands, splashing the dark liquid heavily across Mavis’s pristine white apron. Mavis stared down at the ruined, soaking sketch, her lips trembling uncontrollably.
"Scrub floors," Camellia ordered, her tone sharp and contemptuous. "Stop pretending you’re an artist."
