Chapter 3
The tension in the gallery became a physical, suffocating weight. The bright, vivid colors of the surrounding artwork seemed to sharpen under the cinematic, neutral lighting, creating a stark contrast to the dark, dangerous aura radiating from Roland Ashcroft. He remained crouched beside Mavis, his tattooed fingers lightly holding the torn charcoal sketch, his cold eyes demanding an absolute truth.
Mavis swallowed hard, her throat painfully dry. She kept her hands hovering away from her body, holding both wet, dirty hands away from her ruined apron. The fair, rosy skin of her face tightened with genuine, overwhelming fear. She knew exactly what Camellia was capable of, but looking into Roland’s intimidating, icy eyes, she realized that lying to the Mafia boss was a far deadlier proposition.
Mavis gave a small, trembling nod. She looked directly at Roland, refusing to break eye contact despite the sheer terror gripping her heart.
"Every painting here," Mavis said, her American accent quiet, strained, but undeniably clear. "Camellia only signs them."
A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the immediate circle of art buyers and guests who had been eavesdropping on the confrontation. The claim was nothing short of scandalous, threatening to shatter a multi-million dollar exhibition sponsored by one of the most ruthless men in the city.
"That is an absolute outrage!" Camellia shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly across the polished marble floors. She stepped forward, her hands balled into tight fists at her sides. "How dare you speak to him that way? You are nothing but a common housemaid!"
Roland did not blink. He slowly rose to his full, towering height, dwarfing the two women before him. The loose strands of wavy hair fell across his forehead as he turned his angular face toward his fiancée.
Roland slowly turned toward Camellia.
The moment his dead, cold eyes locked onto hers, Camellia’s artificial smile vanished entirely. The blood drained from her fair, rosy cheeks, leaving her looking suddenly fragile. She glanced nervously around the room, taking in the shocked expressions of the listening wealthy buyers, the critics, and the suited Mafia bodyguards standing by the doors. Desperation clawed at her chest, forcing her to lift a defensive, arrogant chin.
"She is lying to you, Roland," Camellia stated, her tone turning cold and deliberately dismissive. "I drew all of it myself. I spent hundreds of hours in the studio perfecting every canvas in this gallery. She is merely a jealous servant trying to extort us."
"A jealous servant," Roland repeated, his low volume forcing the crowd to lean in. The controlled pause before his next word hung in the air like a guillotine. "Who somehow possesses a perfect preliminary sketch of the centerpiece."
"She stole it!" Camellia insisted, her American accent pitching higher with panic. "I demand that you have your men throw her out onto the street immediately! She is ruining the entire evening!"
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"The only thing being ruined tonight, Camellia, is my patience," Roland said softly. His deep, raspy voice betrayed no emotion, but the danger radiating from his tailored suit was unmistakable. He turned his attention back to the worktable, his eyes scanning the brushes, the palette, and the blank canvas resting on the demonstration easel.
"We do not need to rely on accusations," Roland murmured, stepping toward the table. "We have everything we need to discover the truth right here."
