~ Evelyn’s POV ~
Flashback…
If Kathy were here right now, she would never let me hear the end of it.
She would probably stand in the center of the gallery and announce to everyone that Evelyn Vance, the untouchable head of Vance Corp, had arrived hours early for a simple art exhibition, hiding away in the shadows of the VVIP lounge.
I let out a dry, quiet laugh to myself at the thought, taking a slow sip of my wine.
It was a reality I still didn’t want to admit, but what Kathy had whispered in my ear at the gala was starting to feel terrifyingly true.
I had changed.
Not for the world, of course—my public face remained as cold and rigid as ever.
But for Clara?
Yes.
She was the sole reason I had abruptly postponed an important, multi-billion-dollar acquisition meeting, ignoring the collective, stunned voices of my board of directors, just so I could sit in this dark balcony and watch her.
From the safety of the shadows, I was quietly, cheering her on.
I had spent my entire adult life running my days like a high-precision machine.
I lived in a continuous loop of hostile takeovers, financial power plays, and endless corporate warfare.
I had never once imagined that another human being could disrupt that routine, let alone someone as quiet as Clara.
But suddenly, those massive business deals felt secondary.
I actually found myself looking forward to the quiet, simple breakfasts we shared at the estate, the silent dinners, and the small, domestic moments I used to think were a waste of time.
I liked watching her when she didn’t know I was looking—the way her brow furrowed when she was deep in thought, or the soft way she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
But alongside that quiet affection, a sharp, restless irritation had been festering in my chest all week.
It still annoyed me that I couldn’t simply demand to know what she and Katherine had been discussing so quietly in my office.
Clara had given me a summary of their conversation, but I knew her well enough now to know she was keeping something back.
The mere thought that she was hiding things from me— made me feel uneasy.
To make matters worse, she had been treating me with a frustrating, polite distance ever since our meeting with Francesco Miguel.
She had been treating me with the careful obedience of a assistant.
Did my words on the ride home really hurt her that much?
Was she truly that upset because I reminded her that my help wasn’t free?
But that was the simple truth of my world.
Everything had a price, and I wouldn’t have her believe our arrangement was built on empty sentiment.
She was an investment.
Though she wasn’t just a asset to be managed; she was a woman of incredible, raw talent and a quiet, striking beauty.
I wouldn’t have gone to such ridiculous, exhausting lengths—secretly calling in favors from influential curators, sending her works for review, and subtly dropping her portfolio in front of the city’s most influential critics if she wasn’t worth every single calculated effort.
I let out a slow, heavy breath and finished the wine in my glass, the dark liquid doing nothing to quiet the tight spiral of my thoughts.
I was about to signal the waitress for another glass when the doors of the main hall opened.
My heart, usually a steady rock, skipped a beat.
It was Clara.
She walked into the gallery wearing the royal blue gown.
The deep color caught the warm lights of the exhibition, highlighting the elegant curve of her body and the white, soft skin of her neck.
She looked absolutely breathtaking.
The corner of my mouth turned up in a small smile of triumph.
A sudden, tight surge of possessiveness hit my chest as I watched the critics turn their heads to look at her.
That’s right, I thought, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass.
You should always look like someone associated with the Vance empire.
Like someone who belongs only to me. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
I took a fresh glass of wine from the passing waitress, my eyes never leaving her as she stepped into the crowd, entirely unaware that I was watching her every move from above.
Watching the curator introduce her to the critics, seeing the bright, genuine smile on her face as she explained the inspiration behind her sketches, did something strange to my chest.
It was pride, certainly, but there was something else shifting beneath it—something far more dangerous that I refused to put a name to.
This had nothing to do with my investment finally paying off, or the satisfaction of being right about her talent.
It was simply her.
The realization was quiet and entirely unwelcome, but as I watched her laugh at something a guest said, I couldn’t deny it anymore.
“What do you think, Francis?” I asked quietly, my eyes never leaving her.
“Of Clara, or her work, Miss Vance?” Francis asked.
His voice was perfectly smooth, but there was a quiet, knowing tone to it.
He had been with me long enough to read between the lines.
“Both,” I murmured.
“I think she is fortunate to have you as her patron,” Francis said, his gaze shifting to match mine.
“But she is also remarkably talented. It’s a pity Julian Sterling was too blind to see what he had.”
Hearing Julian’s name always left a bad taste in my mouth, but I didn’t let the irritation show.
“She is talented,” I agreed, swirling the wine in my glass.
“But I am hardly just her patron.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Clara excuse herself from the group, turning the corner toward the restrooms.
I waited for her to return, but five minutes passed, then ten.
When she finally stepped back into the gallery, the change in her was noticeable.
Her shoulders were slightly tense, the bright, animated expression she’d worn moments ago completely gone.
She forced a stiff, polite smile for a passing guest, but it was empty—the kind of mask I saw on socialites every day.
Something in that restroom had completely drained the life out of her.
“Something happened to Clara,” I said, my voice dropping.
“Find out what it was.”
Francis gave a brief nod and slipped quietly into the crowd.
He returned less than three minutes later, handing me a small tablet.
On the screen, an audio-video feed from the hallway entrance near the restrooms played.
Two junior gallery assistants in matching black uniforms were standing near the doors, their hushed, mocking voices coming through the speakers.
They were gossiping, laughing about Clara, calling her my “pet project,” and mocking her talent.
A heavy rage settled deep in my chest as I watched the recording.
I didn’t care about what they said about me; my reputation was bulletproof anyways, and I had endured far worse than the gossips of ordinary staff.
But Clara…
Clara had been so happy and proud of her work.
She had finally felt like she belonged somewhere.
And these bitter, miserable girls had ruined it for her in a matter of seconds.
“Get me Madame Vois,” I ordered, handing the tablet back to Francis and standing up.
The silver-haired curator arrived in the private lounge moments later, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
She looked incredibly nervous, her eyes darting from my face to the tablet Francis held.
“Spreading falsehood about me is one thing, Madame Vois,” I said, my voice completely flat and quiet.
“And i honestly do not care. But when those lies undermine the integrity of an artist under my roof, it becomes my problem. And I do not tolerate problems.”
“I… I don’t understand, Miss Vance,” she stammered, her voice shaking.
“If there is an issue with the staff, I can handle it immediately.”
I gestured for Francis to hand her the tablet.
“Your employees are currently telling guests that I bribed you to show Clara’s work. I want both of those girls dismissed by the end of the night. I want them blacklisted from every gallery and cultural institution associated with Vance Corp.”
I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping to a whisper. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
“If I hear so much as a whisper of this rumor again, I will pull my entire sponsorship from this gallery. Effective tomorrow morning. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, Miss Vance. Immediately,” she squeaked, clutching the tablet to her chest.
I didn’t wait to hear her apologize.
I turned on my heel and walked out, heading to the private elevator.
I wanted to get back to the estate.
I needed to see Clara.
Present…
I stared into the dying embers of the fireplace, a heavy, restless weight pressing down on my chest.
Usually I pride my self as someone with high emotional threshold.
I’m hardly phased by any situation or person, but tonight, my mind was a complete mess.
I couldn’t stop replaying the argument with Clara, over and over, her tear-streaked face flashing in my mind every time I closed my eyes.
This wasn’t how I had planned for the evening to end.
I looked over at the dark green bottle sitting unopened on the side table.
It was a rare, incredibly expensive vintage I had personally selected from my private cellar earlier that afternoon.
I had wanted to pour her a glass, to raise a toast to her very first gallery showing, and to tell her she had done well.
Instead, the bottle sat there untouched and she was upstairs in her room, crying.
Why can’t she just trust me?
I thought, my chest tightening with frustration.
Even if it’s just a little.
Why did she choose to believe the whispers of two jealous, insignificant gallery employees over the reality of her own talent?
It was infuriating.
How could she think so little of her own work?
Did she honestly believe I was some naive, soft-hearted philanthropist who threw hundreds of thousands of dollars at talentless people out of pity?
The very idea was an insult to my judgment.
If her paintings had been subpar, I wouldn’t have looked at them twice, let alone cleared a wall for them at the Beaumont.
I stood up and began to pace across the quiet room.
“Don’t flatter yourself… You are just an investment. My acquisition.”
The words I had thrown at her echoed in the quiet room, sounding incredibly cold and hurtful.
I hadn’t meant them.
Not really.
But when she had stepped into my space, looking at me with those wide, tear-filled eyes, It had sliced straight through the walls I had spent a decade building around my own feelings.
Her tears had made me feel vulnerable.
They had terrified me.
And in my panic, I had used the cruelest, most distant words I could find to push her away before I did something completely out of character.
Before I reached out and pulled her into my arms.
I was still pacing, locked in this frustrating, silent battle with myself, when my phone vibrated on the coffee table.
The screen lit up, cutting through the dim light of the room.
I walked over and picked it up.
“Miss Evelyn, you were right. He fell for the trap and bought all the shares.”
A slow, smile touched my lips.
I tossed the phone back onto the table.
At least one of my plans was working perfectly.