Chapter 10
The heavy oak door of the office swung open, and Roland Ashcroft stepped back out into the brightly lit corridor, Mavis Fairbourne walking confidently by his side. She no longer wore the stained apron; her fitted black dress and white lace headband looked less like a servant's uniform and more like an eccentric, brilliant artist's chosen attire.
As they re-entered the grand gallery, the atmosphere had shifted entirely. The panicked murmurs of the wealthy art buyers had been silenced by the overwhelming presence of Roland’s heavily armed bodyguards, who had efficiently secured the perimeter of the room. The guests stood in nervous clusters, their American accents hushed, waiting to see what the volatile Mafia boss would do next.
Camellia was nowhere to be found. Her bags were likely already being packed by Roland’s men, preparing to throw her out into the street.
Roland walked directly toward the center of the exhibition, leading Mavis to the demonstration easel that still held the blank, white canvas. The bright, cinematic, neutral white light poured down from the ceiling, illuminating the worktable covered in expensive brushes and vibrant oil paints.
The crowd parted for them, their eyes wide with shock and curiosity as the powerful billionaire escorted the beautiful young housemaid to the focal point of the multi-million dollar event.
Roland stopped beside the easel. He turned his tall, masculine frame to face the crowd. His cold, intimidating eyes swept over the elite buyers, the critics, and the terrified socialites.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Roland announced. His deep, raspy voice was kept at a low volume, yet it echoed clearly across the silent, polished marble floors. Every sentence was measured, cold, and dripping with absolute authority. "There has been a slight change in the evening's program."
He placed his tattooed hand gently on Mavis’s shoulder, a clear, unmistakable physical claim of his protection.
"The woman you believed to be the genius behind this exhibition is a fraud," Roland stated bluntly, eliciting a wave of shocked gasps from the audience. "Camellia Thorne has been permanently removed from my estate, and from my life. Every painting you see on these walls was stolen from the true master."
Roland stepped aside, leaving Mavis standing alone before the blank canvas.
"Allow me to introduce Mavis Fairbourne," Roland said softly, his eyes locking onto hers. "The true artist."
The crowd stared in stunned silence. A housemaid. The genius was a housemaid.
Mavis looked at the blank canvas. Her heart raced, but she felt no fear. She picked up the wooden palette, the vibrant colors stark against the crisp lighting. She selected a medium-tipped sable brush, her fingers gripping the wood with practiced, effortless grace. She turned to look at Roland, his handsome, angular face illuminated perfectly in the light.
"Paint me," Roland whispered, a dangerous, thrilling promise hanging in the air.
Mavis dipped the brush into a deep, rich shade of charcoal. She turned back to the canvas, raising her hand. As the bristles touched the pristine white surface, marking the beginning of her new, extraordinary life, the heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the gallery suddenly burst open.
"Roland Ashcroft!" a booming, furious voice roared across the room, shattering the peaceful silence.
May you like
Roland slowly turned his head. Standing in the doorway was the patriarch of the Thorne family, flanked by a dozen heavily armed men. The war that Roland had promised to fight had arrived faster than anticipated.
Mavis froze, the brush hovering over the canvas. Roland did not flinch. He reached beneath his tailored dark three-piece suit, his hand resting on the cold steel of his concealed weapon. The exhibition was over, and the real masterpiece of violence was about to begin.
