Chapter 3 · $30M Receipts For A Fake Genius

I slid into the spacious back seat of the Rolls-Royce.

The warm air inside instantly melted away the autumn chill and all the lingering gloom those two scumbags had left behind.

Mark Carter, Alexander Reed's assistant, the same guy who'd just draped my coat over my shoulders, handed me a thick envelope.

"Ms. Jennings, Mr. Reed asked me to give this to you," he said.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a contract for the transfer of a gallery.

It was for Starlight Gallery. The top spot downtown, the place every artist would kill to get into.

My name was already scrawled in the legal representative section, bold and confident, like it belonged there all along.

I was stunned.

Mark noticed my surprise, gave me a reassuring smile, and explained, "Mr. Reed said he's always known you're not just a top art investor. You're an undiscovered genius, a truly talented artist who's been overlooked."

My heart skipped a beat.

Edward Grant's crowning achievement, the legendary piece "Nirvana" that scored him an international gold medal and global fame, was actually painted by me.

After my parents died in a car crash, I locked myself in my studio for three months straight, every stroke fuelled by pain and desperation.

The day I finally finished that painting, I cried so hard I blacked out.

When I woke up, the painting had disappeared.

Edward Grant told me he'd accidentally ruined it with spilled turpentine and said I shouldn't take it too hard.

I believed him.

It wasn't until after I died, my soul floating above, that I watched him present my "Nirvana," put his signature on it, and stand proudly on the podium, basking in the spotlight.

Facing the world's media with a heartfelt gaze, he declared, "This painting is dedicated to my late love, Claire Jennings. Without her, I wouldn't be here today."

In that instant, my soul shattered with hatred.

I got a second chance at life, waking up three days before the engagement party.

First thing I did? Fired off an encrypted email to one person, attaching a crystal-clear digital copy of "Nirvana" and the full video of me painting it, every brushstroke caught on camera.

That person was Alexander Reed, the most mysterious, most powerful collector in the city, and the man running the Reed Group.

I gambled that he knew real art when he saw it, and that he had the muscle to go up against the money behind Edward Grant.

Turns out, I bet on the right guy.

"Mr. Reed has everything set up," Mark's voice yanked me out of those bone-chilling memories. "He said the stage is ready. All you have to do is step up and take back what's yours."

I stared at the gallery contract in my hands, an unfamiliar warmth blooming in my chest.

It felt good to finally be seen, to finally be recognized for who I truly was.

Shaking my head, I slid the contract back to him.

Mark looked genuinely stunned.

Looking him straight in the eye, I said calmly, "Tell Mr. Reed I appreciate it, but this is just too much. I can't accept something like this."

"However," I continued, my eyes burning with a fierce ambition that was all mine. "I'm going to build a museum that's truly my own. One that carries the name Claire Jennings. And Mr. Reed? He'll be my first, and my only, investor."

Mark's eyes flashed with surprise, then shifted to deep admiration.

He picked up his phone, dialed, and said respectfully, "Mr. Reed, Ms. Jennings says she won't accept your gallery."

On the other end, there was a soft laugh.

Mark listened, and his grin grew wider.

He hung up and gave me a deep, respectful bow.

"Ms. Jennings, Mr. Reed says he's seriously impressed by your ambition." Mark's voice was full of admiration. "He's all in. He agrees, no hesitation."

*****

The scandal at the engagement party exploded across the elite social scene, spreading like wildfire.

Edward Grant was now the laughingstock of high society.

Labels like "gold-digger," "ungrateful bastard," and "heartless traitor" clung to his "genius artist" reputation. No matter what he did, he couldn't shake them off.

The galleries and luxury brands that used to chase after him were now scrambling to cut ties, terrified of catching even a whiff of his bad luck.

His career, which had been soaring just days before, crashed straight to the ground overnight.

I thought he'd hit rock bottom and just disappear, but turns out, he was even more shameless than I ever gave him credit for.

Chapter 3

I slid into the spacious back seat of the Rolls-Royce.

The warm air inside instantly melted away the autumn chill and all the lingering gloom those two scumbags had left behind.

Mark Carter, Alexander Reed's assistant, the same guy who'd just draped my coat over my shoulders, handed me a thick envelope.

"Ms. Jennings, Mr. Reed asked me to give this to you," he said.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a contract for the transfer of a gallery.

It was for Starlight Gallery. The top spot downtown, the place every artist would kill to get into.

My name was already scrawled in the legal representative section, bold and confident, like it belonged there all along.

I was stunned.

My heart skipped a beat.

Edward Grant's crowning achievement, the legendary piece "Nirvana" that scored him an international gold medal and global fame, was actually painted by me.

After my parents died in a car crash, I locked myself in my studio for three months straight, every stroke fuelled by pain and desperation.

The day I finally finished that painting, I cried so hard I blacked out.

When I woke up, the painting had disappeared.

Edward Grant told me he'd accidentally ruined it with spilled turpentine and said I shouldn't take it too hard.

I believed him.

It wasn't until after I died, my soul floating above, that I watched him present my "Nirvana," put his signature on it, and stand proudly on the podium, basking in the spotlight.

Facing the world's media with a heartfelt gaze, he declared, "This painting is dedicated to my late love, Claire Jennings. Without her, I wouldn't be here today."

In that instant, my soul shattered with hatred.

I got a second chance at life, waking up three days before the engagement party.

First thing I did? Fired off an encrypted email to one person, attaching a crystal-clear digital copy of "Nirvana" and the full video of me painting it, every brushstroke caught on camera.

That person was Alexander Reed, the most mysterious, most powerful collector in the city, and the man running the Reed Group.

I gambled that he knew real art when he saw it, and that he had the muscle to go up against the money behind Edward Grant.

Turns out, I bet on the right guy.

"Mr. Reed has everything set up," Mark's voice yanked me out of those bone-chilling memories. "He said the stage is ready. All you have to do is step up and take back what's yours."

I stared at the gallery contract in my hands, an unfamiliar warmth blooming in my chest.

It felt good to finally be seen, to finally be recognized for who I truly was.

Shaking my head, I slid the contract back to him.

Mark looked genuinely stunned.

Looking him straight in the eye, I said calmly, "Tell Mr. Reed I appreciate it, but this is just too much. I can't accept something like this."

Mark's eyes flashed with surprise, then shifted to deep admiration.

He picked up his phone, dialed, and said respectfully, "Mr. Reed, Ms. Jennings says she won't accept your gallery."

On the other end, there was a soft laugh.

Mark listened, and his grin grew wider.

He hung up and gave me a deep, respectful bow.

"Ms. Jennings, Mr. Reed says he's seriously impressed by your ambition." Mark's voice was full of admiration. "He's all in. He agrees, no hesitation."

*****

The scandal at the engagement party exploded across the elite social scene, spreading like wildfire.

Edward Grant was now the laughingstock of high society.

Labels like "gold-digger," "ungrateful bastard," and "heartless traitor" clung to his "genius artist" reputation. No matter what he did, he couldn't shake them off.

The galleries and luxury brands that used to chase after him were now scrambling to cut ties, terrified of catching even a whiff of his bad luck.

His career, which had been soaring just days before, crashed straight to the ground overnight.

I thought he'd hit rock bottom and just disappear, but turns out, he was even more shameless than I ever gave him credit for.