~ Clara’s POV ~
The morning of the Beaumont Exhibition arrived too quickly.
I spent nearly an hour sitting in front of my vanity mirror, carefully dabbing concealer over the dark circles that had settled under my eyes.
I had barely slept.
Deciding to go with a dress that felt a little more like the old me.
It was a simple, royal blue gown that caught the morning light, elegant but understated, without the suffocating layers of typical high-society wear.
But as I reached for my clutch and prepared to step out into the hallway, a heavy, restless weight settled in the pit of my stomach.
My mind was spinning with questions I couldn’t answer.
Why had the Beaumont Gallery— a prestigious place where famous artists spent decades trying to secure a single wall, sent a personal invitation to a complete nobody like me?
How had my life transformed so completely, going from a literal prison in the Sterling house to this high-stakes, glittering dream in a matter of months?
I thought about the massive paycheck that quietly dropped in my bank account every single month, a sum of money so large it still felt like a mistake.
I thought about the way the legendary Francesco Miguel had talked about my art, with such genuine interest.
But most of all, my thoughts kept drifting back to her.
Miss Evelyn.
Ever since the night of the gala, she had become completely distant.
She was still present in the house though— I heard the familiar, click of her heels in the morning, and her faint, clean scent of lavender still lingered in the hallways after she passed.
But the woman who had given me a genuine smile for the first time at me Mr Francesco art Exhibition few days ago, had vanished.
In her place was the cold, untouchable CEO, more silent and distant than she had ever been.
I couldn’t even put a name to the strange feelings starting to bloom in my chest.
It wasn’t love, it couldn’t be.
It felt wrong to even let the thought cross my mind.
How could I let myself feel anything for the woman who quite literally bought and owned me?
Yet, the truth was terrifying.
Every time she walked into a room, all of a sudden forget how to breathe.
Every time she spoke my name, even in her coldest office voice, I felt a strange, invisible pull toward her.
It was a confusing, frustrating mess of emotions, and it was driving me completely crazy.
Before I left, I walked down to the South Wing to find her.
My heart was pounding nervously against my ribs.
I wanted to tell her I was leaving for the exhibition.
I wanted…
I didn’t even know.
A simple nod?
A quiet “good luck”?
More than anything, I think I just wanted to know if she was proud of me.
But when I reached her side of the building , the door was firmly shut.
I knocked twice, but the heavy silence of the hallway was my only answer.
“She left for an early meeting an hour ago, Miss Clara,” James, the butler said, his voice echoing softly as I walked down the stairs into the grand foyer.
I forced a small, polite smile, swallowing the lump of disappointment that suddenly threatened to choke me.
“I see. Thank you, James”
I stepped into the backseat of the waiting car, the rich scent of the leather seats reminding me of the immense wealth that now surrounded my life. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
I was finally heading to my very first professional exhibition, but as the engine purred to life, I felt the knot in my stomach tighten as I had no idea what to expect when I arrive.
The Beaumont Gallery was everything I had ever dreamed of.
The scent of expensive wine, heavy floral perfumes, and fresh oil paint hung thick in the air, creating an atmosphere that felt almost holy to someone like me.
The moment I walked through the entrance, Madame Vois, a tall woman with striking silver hair and a tailored suit, walked straight toward me with a warm, welcoming smile.
She took my hand in hers, introducing me to several prominent art critics as the “fresh, raw perspective the city’s art scene desperately needed.” For the next hour, I stood near the corner where my sketches were displayed, watching in silent disbelief as people stopped, leaned in close, and lingered.
I overheard a group of collectors praising my use of heavy shadows and the raw, emotional urgency in my charcoal lines.
For a few beautiful, fleeting moments, I wasn’t Julian’s downbeat-wife, and I wasn’t Evelyn Vance’s assistant.
I was Clara Sinclair.
I was an artist.
A rush of pure, headic happiness washed over me, so strong it made my head spin.
I might actually belonged here.
But the bubble didn’t last.
Seeking a quiet escape from the heat and the constant chatter of the crowd, I slipped away to the restrooms.
I walked into one of the empty stalls, leaning my forehead against the cool partition as I tried to calm my racing heart and catch my breath.
I was about to walk out when the heavy outer door swung open, followed by the sound of sharp heels and quiet, mocking laughter.
I peeked from a hole and i saw It was two of the gallery’s junior staff members, judging by their identical black uniforms and the hurried way they were adjusting their makeup at the mirrors.
“I mean, the nerve of that girl is honestly unbelievable,” one of them scoffed, her voice dripping with irritation.
“Standing there by those sketches like she actually earned that wall space. It’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, please. Money can buy absolutely anything in this city, darling,” the other replied, her tone casual and dismissive.
“Even a career. Madame Vois told the senior staff this morning that Evelyn Vance personally bankrolled the entire ‘Young Artists’ showcase just to get her new little assistant a spot. The official ‘invitation’ they sent her was just a formality to make it look legitimate.” She laughed then continued
“I heard Miss Vance basically threatened to pull her entire sponsorship for the next three seasons if they didn’t feature her girl’s work.”
“Seriously?” The first one let out a quiet, ugly laugh.
“Must be nice. I wonder what it’s like to be a pet project for a woman who has more money than actual feelings.”
The silence that followed their exit was deafening.
My breath hitched in my throat, a cold, sickening numbness spreading from my chest until my fingers went completely stiff.
“So the sketches on the wall outside… they weren’t there because they were good?. They weren’t there because of my hard work, or my talent?.”
Doubt, fast and frantic ceased my chest.
‘They were there because a bored billionaire had written a check?’
Every single compliment I had received tonight, every warm handshake, and every word of praise from the critics was nothing but a lie bought and paid for by the Vance Conglomerate.
It incredibly naive of me to think I was something more than just a deal at the end of the day.
The ride back to the estate felt like a miserable, silent chore.
I stared out the window, blinking rapidly to force back the tears that kept trying to spill over my eyelashes.
I refused to cry over this.
By the time the car stopped and I walked through the grand front doors, the deep, hollow ache in my chest had hardened into a sharp, uncontrollable anger.
I found Miss Evelyn in the main lounge.
The overhead lights from the chandelier were switched off, the only warmth in the room coming from the fireplace.
The orange flames cast long, dancing shadows across her face.
She was sitting on the leather sofa, slowly swirling a glass of scotch, looking completely relaxed and untouchable.
Her voice was perfectly calm, a contrast to what I was feeling inside
I didn’t answer her.
Instead, I marched over to the table and threw my clutch down onto the floor tile.
The loud, sharp crack of the leather hitting the stone cut through the quiet room.
“Why did you do it?” I demanded.
She didn’t flinch at the noise.
She simply lifted her head, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she watched me.
She swirled the ice in her glass, the clinking sound agonizingly slow.
“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“The Beamont Exhibition” I shouted, the frustration I had been bottling up for days finally spilling over.
“The invitation! The critics! You bought all of it, didn’t you? You paid them to display my art. You manipulated the curator into giving me a spot, and you let me stand there like an idiot while their staff laughed at me behind my back!”
Miss Evelyn set her glass down and stood up.
The sheer height of her seemed to fill the space between us instantly.
She didn’t look guilty, and she certainly didn’t look sorry.
She just looked mildly annoyed, and that indifference cut deeper than any shout would have.
“I gave you the most prestigious platform in the country, Clara,” she began, her voice dropping into that familiar cold, tone.
“I put your name in front of people who didn’t even know you existed. You should be thanking me for the exposure, not standing in my living room throwing a tantrum.”
“I wanted to earn it!” I yelled, taking a step toward her, my hands shaking so badly I had to ball them into fists.
“I thought… for a second, I actually thought you saw something in my work. I thought you believed in me! But you’re just playing God, aren’t you? You bought my freedom because you had the money to do it, and now you’re buying my dreams just because you can!”
But the moment the words left my mouth, as I looked at her standing there in the firelight, the anger inside me suddenly collapsed.
The reality of my situation rushed back, cold and suffocating.
Who was I to yell at her anyway?
I was a woman who had been dragged out of one cage and placed into a more expensive one.
I wore designer dress that was bought with her money.
I had no right to demand anything from her, because I was nothing, to her a no body.
Under the weight of her gaze I felt incredibly small.
“I…” My voice cracked, the last of my anger dissolving into a quiet, painful sob.
“I just wanted one thing to be real. Just one thing in my life that wasn’t bought and paid for by anyone”
Miss Evelyn stepped closer, crossing the small distance between us.
She looked down at me, her features completely rigid, her eyes like chips of ice.
“Don’t flatter yourself by thinking this was about ‘believing’ in your talent, Clara,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, sharp whisper.
“Like I told you before, you are an investment. I did not bring you here, to my house to be your friend, and I certainly didn’t do it to play the role of your charity patron. I did it because I wanted to, like you said. And I will manage my property exactly as I see fit.”
She leaned in slightly, her voice quiet but carrying a terrifying weight.
“Now, go back to your room. And remember your place before you decide to raise your voice to me again.”
I couldn’t even look her in the eye.
I turned around and ran out of the room, the sound of my crying the only thing breaking the quiet of her empty house.
Thank you so much for reading Chapter 15!
I think this might be one of the most emotional chapters I’ve written so far.
It means the world to me.
Question for you guys: Did Evelyn go way too far with the “property” comment, or do you think she’s just panicking because she realized how much she actually cares about Clara?
Let me know what you think in the comments!