The stage was set with the tools of oil painting — brushes arrayed precisely beside oil paints, a fresh canvas waiting to receive inspiration.
A polished young MC stepped into the spotlight, his professional smile gleaming.
"Distinguished guests, welcome to tonight's auction." His voice carried the practiced warmth of someone who'd opened a thousand such events.
"We're especially honored to host the internationally acclaimed Ms. Berthe Morisot, who has pledged tonight's proceeds to benefit children in impoverished communities…"
Just mentioning the name sent a ripple through the previously languid crowd.
"Finally!" someone whispered. "We'll see Ms. Morisot's true face!"
"Ladies and gentlemen — Ms. Morisot," the MC introduced.
The audience surged forward as the curtains parted. A diminutive figure emerged, wrapped in a black dress and — to everyone's shock — a face veil.
The crowd burst into a wave of murmurs.
"What's going on? Where's Ms. Morisot?"
"That's a girl!"
"How do you know that? Could be an old woman under that veil —"
"Please. Look at those hands. Young skin doesn't lie."
"They're trying to pass off some kid as Ms. Morisot? What kind of scam is this?"
"Get the organizer out here. Now!"
Ace turned to his father, amusement playing across his features.
"Well, Dad? Feeling like you've been catfished?"
Darrell's sharp gaze never left the stage.
"The art speaks for itself," he said flatly. "Whatever Berthe Morisot is — irrelevant. We'll know the truth when she paints."
"Classic Dad." Ace's attention drifted back to the veiled figure, his smile taking on a knowing edge.
That's… Velora? Interesting, he thought.
The MC, sweating now, approached the silent figure. He was just as surprised as everyone else to see that the legendary Ms. Morisot was a girl. But with the audience growing restless, he needed to act fast.
"Ms. Morisot, perhaps a word to address these concerns?"
Velora beckoned him closer and whispered briefly in his ear. He straightened and cleared his throat, addressing the crowd.
"Ms. Morisot suggests you reserve judgment until the demonstration is complete."
But the audience wasn't having it.
"Obvious fake!"
"Some kid, producing masterpieces? Please."
"This is embarrassing for everyone involved. Get her off the stage."
"You're just wasting my time. I'm leaving."
Guests began standing, gathering their coats. The MC shot a panicked look at the silent figure, who was murmuring something to a wide-eyed staff member.
Then she did something completely unexpected. She selected a massive canvas and began securing it to a specially constructed wooden platform on the floor with canvas pins.
Fresh speculation erupted.
"She can't seriously paint such a huge piece."
"Two and a half hours? Impossible."
"That's premium-grade canvas she's using."
"More smoke and mirrors."
"What if she actually pulls this off?"
"No way."
As the crowd debated whether this too-young Ms. Morisot could possibly finish in time, the staff member came rushing back, flustered and out of breath.
In his arms was a live chicken, while a bag of corn kernels swung from his other hand as he hurried to Velora's side. A palette of vibrant acrylics had been prepared nearby.
Every eye in the house locked onto the scene unfolding center stage.
The MC wanted to cry. Minutes ago, they were all threatening to leave, and now they can't take their eyes off her, he thought miserably. What about all the other auction items, for heaven's sake?
With a flourish, Velora scattered corn across the platform holding the canvas. The chicken thrashed in its handler's grip, wild to get at the feast before it. In one fluid motion, she grabbed its neck, dipped its feet in different colored acrylics, and released it onto the canvas.
The audience watched in horrified disbelief. This girl was actually claiming this was art — just letting a chicken track acrylics across the expensive canvas and calling it done. She must think they were complete idiots.
The chicken strutted about, pecking at corn kernels, turning the pristine white canvas into a chaotic explosion of colorful footprints. Nothing about this chaos of purple, blue, and yellow tracks resembled an actual painting.
The audience had reached their breaking point.
"This is an auction house, not a petting zoo!"
"We came for art, not poultry!"
"Do they think we're idiots?"
"Where's Mr. Nelson? We need an explanation!"
Angry shouts echoed through the venue as the situation spiraled beyond the staff's control.
"Mr. Nelson, we're losing them!" a staff member pleaded with their nearly comatose boss hiding backstage. "Is Ms. Morisot actually going to pull this off?"
Paul's face paled. More than a decade of carefully cultivated reputation was about to be ruined tonight.
Through it all, Ace couldn't take his eyes off the veiled figure.
"Dad? Care to theorize about what she's really doing?"
Darrell said nothing for a long moment, his attention laser-focused.
"Hm."
Ace turned back to the stage.
Just as the chicken was about to leave an unwanted "contribution" on the canvas, Velora shooed it away with a swift kick. Ignoring its indignant squawks, she had the canvas mounted onto a big easel and swept up to the brush display, selecting a thick one. Her movements carried the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
With a practiced dip into the acrylics, she began. Each random chicken track transformed beneath her brush, merging and flowing into something entirely new. The earlier accusations of fraud died in throats as the audience watched, transfixed.
Guests exchanged meaningful looks. They couldn't quite make out the full picture—Velora's constant movement around the massive canvas and the distance from their seats made sure of that—but something was definitely taking shape.
Time crawled by until a clear "Done!" cut through the tension.
"She's done already?"
"No way. It hasn't even been two hours!"
"Bet she just slapped something together."
"If this turns out to be any good, I'll eat my hat!"
Two staff members carefully transferred the painting to the projector screen. The skeptical whispers died mid-breath. Under Velora's masterful strokes, the chaotic chicken tracks had transformed into a vibrant garden in full bloom. Sunlight danced across a riot of colors—where simple footprints had been, now dresses of young women swirled among fluttering butterflies.