Darrell slowly lifted his head to look at Velora, his eyes devoid of any expectation. His silent stare met her offer with a look that made it seem as if she herself was the punchline to a poor joke.
His derisive snort said everything as he gathered the torn painting and headed upstairs, dismissing her entirely.
"Oh, this is rich," Leila pounced the moment her father's footsteps faded. "You really think you can match any old masterpiece? That's a Berthe Morisot original — it's priceless! The nerve of comparing yourself to Ms. Morisot!"
Velora couldn't reveal her identity as Berthe — that was classified, without clearance from above. Instead, she shrugged.
"Why not? Isn't Berthe just another girl my age? How different could we be?"
"God, you're clueless," Leila's face flushed with indignation.
She spat, "The gap between you and Ms. Morisot is wider than the ocean. The absolute audacity — thinking you're in the same league just because you're both young. Could your amateur scribbles ever catch a collector's eye? Command those kinds of prices? I've never met anyone so brazen—"
"That's enough." Ace's usual warmth had chilled considerably. "Getting brave with Dad gone? How about we let Velora try before you write her off?"
"Ace, she just destroyed Dad's painting and you're defending her?" Leila's voice wavered between rage and hurt. "Why do you always take her side? What's so special about this ignorant nobody who thinks she can match Ms. Morisot? Someone needs to wake her up!"
Ace's cold laugh cut off further debate. He turned to Velora, his smile returning.
"Come on, let's talk upstairs."
"Fine by me." Velora was more than ready to escape Leila's tirade.
Left behind, Leila watched them go, practically grinding her teeth to dust at the blatant favoritism.
Up on the second-floor balcony, Velora leaned against the railing, studying her brother sideways.
"You really think I can paint?"
"Of course." Ace ruffled her hair with easy affection. "My talented little sister could knock out a painting in her sleep. Think you can make an exact copy? Want me to rustle up another chicken?"
"No, I can't make an exact—" Velora caught herself mid-sentence. "Wait. Another chicken?"
She plastered on her most innocent expression. "Why would I need a chicken to paint?"
Her heart drummed against her ribs. That knowing tone couldn't be a coincidence. She wondered if he recognized her as Berthe. But she'd worn different clothes and even used a veil.
Watching her transparent panic, Ace's last doubts evaporated. His hunch was dead on — Velora was Berthe, which was fascinating.
Her records claimed she'd spent her whole life in some backwater village, yet here she was, an internationally acclaimed painting master. Someone had clearly gone to great lengths to obscure her background.
But since her identity was meant to stay hidden, he wouldn't push. No point spooking her.
"Well," he said with calculated casualness, "that's how Ms. Morisot painted earlier — letting a chicken walk across the canvas first. Thought you might use the same technique."
"Oh… okay." Velora eyed him suspiciously. Her brother was as slippery as Henry — always something lurking behind that smile.
Besides, she added, "That style's too random to copy exactly. I'd have to create something new."
This was her signature anti-forgery measure. Other masters' work could be copied by studying their habits, but her method of letting animals create unpredictable base patterns made exact replication impossible. It had been her breakthrough in the art world.
"What's your plan then?" he asked.
To Ace, her auction piece had already seemed perfect.
"Rose blossoms," she said.
His eyes danced. "Need any animal assistants for this one?"
"Yeah. Get me a cat."
"A cat?"
"Yep. Meow."
In his bedroom, Darrell sat examining the painting, lost in thought until a knock broke his reverie.
"Come in."
Susan entered in black lace, the picture of calculated seduction. Seeing him still absorbed in the painting, she glided closer.
"Darling, I know the painting was precious, but don't let this affect your health."
"I'm not that fragile." He set the painting aside and regarded his still-attractive wife without interest, his thoughts elsewhere. "How's Leila? She's had a rough day — tell her to pick out whatever gift she wants."
"You spoil her." Susan laughed softly, moving to sit beside him.
His eyes snapped to her, instantly wary. "What are you doing?"
Hurt flickered across her face. She adjusted her neckline, a practiced move.
"We're married — can't I even sit on your bed?"
To the world, they were husband and wife. But everyone in the house knew: over a decade of marriage, and he'd never laid a finger on her. She'd withered from a blooming beauty to a worn-out woman, watching her youth slip away in this empty marriage.
He met her wounded look with flat indifference.
"We discussed this before marriage. My heart belongs to your sister. I married you for Leila, nothing more."
"I know, but..." Bitterness choked her words as tears threatened.
She'd thought time would wear down his resistance — after all, he was still a man with needs. Instead, to her utter disbelief, he'd maintained his ascetic self-control for eighteen long years, never once wavering.
"If you understand, then go," he said.
Watching his complete disinterest, Susan retreated, clinging to her one comfort: Leila's resemblance to her sister was enough to ensure his care.
But now Velora was back — also bearing her sister's features. Though Darrell's current resentment kept him cold, who knew when that might change? Perhaps one day, the familiar features would soften his heart, just as they had ensured his care for Leila.
She couldn't gamble her and Leila's security on maybes.
That little wretch who should have died years ago — she has to go. One way or another, she thought.
Early the next morning, Darrell descended the stairs to find his household staff huddled at the front entrance like teenagers at a concert stage door.
"Don't you have work to do?" His sharp tone made a nearby maid jump.
"Mr. Carson!" She straightened instantly. "Miss Velora Carson is painting something remarkable—we couldn't help ourselves."
"Painting?" Darrell recalled her promise to replace his ruined masterpiece. So she'd actually risen at dawn to make good on it.