Chapter 7

Regina said, as if she was just stating a fact, "On your eighth birthday, you said you wanted Alma to be your mom.

"So I granted your wish. Now Alma really is your new mom. You should be happy, right?"

Davy sobbed, tears streaming down his face, "I didn't mean it. I only said it to spite you. You're always bossing me around, but Alma always lets me have my way..."

"See?" Regina smiled gently, reaching out to wipe his tears. "Kids can say things out of anger, but grown-ups might take it to heart. Once you say something, you can't take it back."

Davy's crying slowly faded, turning into quiet sniffles. Suddenly, he remembered something and pulled a crumpled note from his pocket.

On it was a simple pencil sketch of a kitten, the lines lively and full of personality.

He mumbled, staring at the paper, "I found it on the floor in your study last time. I've kept it ever since."

Regina took the note. It was a doodle she'd made absentmindedly, something she'd already forgotten.

She said as she stood up, "If you like it, you can always come by to see my drawings. But this isn't your home anymore, Davy. Your home is with your dad now."

Davy stayed where he was, tears threatening to spill again, but he stubbornly pressed his lips together, trying hard not to let them fall.

That night, Davy slept in the guest room. In the middle of the night, Regina went to check on him and found the note with the kitten drawing tucked under his pillow.

His hand was gripping the edge of the blanket, and there were still traces of tears on his cheeks.

She quietly closed the door and returned to her art studio.

'Breaking the Cocoon' was already finished, and a fresh sheet of paper was spread out beside it.

Regina dipped her brush in ink and began sketching the first lines of her new series. This time, the theme was "Metamorphosis."

In the guest room, Davy murmured in his sleep, "Mom, I'm sorry..."

His voice was barely a whisper, quickly swallowed by the night.

The opening ceremony of the National Youth Art Biennial was held at the National Gallery.

Regina's 'Nirvana' series was showcased in the most eye-catching spot of the contemporary ink art section.

The three four-foot-long, meticulously detailed ink paintings were displayed in a fan arrangement. The first, 'Cocoon,' featured a translucent cicada shell hanging from a dark, withered branch. The second, 'Breaking,' captured a new cicada struggling free from its old shell.

The third, 'Life,' showed a cicada with its wings spread, resting on a fresh, green branch.

Within just half an hour of the exhibition opening, crowds had already gathered in front of the three paintings.

An elderly man with white hair leaned in, inspecting the delicate shading on the cicada's wings, his glasses nearly pressed against the painting.

He said, "This technique... Is she using the ancient method? But the layering here is even richer..."

"Sharp eye, Mr. Reyes," the young man with rimless glasses replied with a smile. It was the curator, Felix Grant.

He said, "Ms. Chandler has brought some innovation to the traditional style. Take a look at how she handles the light and shadow on those dewdrops..."

Before he could finish, a low murmur swept through the crowd. The live camera panned across the exhibition, lingering on the 'Nirvana' series for a full twenty seconds.

At the other end of the hall, Walter stood at the edge of the crowd, holding a half-empty glass of champagne. His fingers felt cold.

He'd been dragged here by a business partner. The partner said, "There are a few rising stars at this biennial. It's good to get to know them early."

He never expected to see that Regina was a participating artist.

Under the spotlight, she wore a modern emerald green dress, her long hair loosely pinned up. She stood sideways, engaged in conversation with a foreign curator. Walter had never seen her like this before.

In his memory, Regina was always in casual clothes, an apron tied around her waist, either holding a spatula or Davy's homework.

Whenever she attended a business party, she'd nervously ask him, "Do I look okay?"

After getting his half-hearted response, she'd follow him around all night, tense and awkward.

But now, the woman he'd always thought would fall apart without him was up there on the hottest stage in the art world, soaking up praise, camera flashes, and every stunned gaze in the room.

Constant Adkins sidled up, his eyes gleaming with shrewd interest. "Hey, Mr. Hudson, do you know that artist? Word is she's a bit of a hermit.

"Her debut show has already got half the critics buzzing. A Stormirian collector even offered her a seven-figure deal for those paintings, but she wouldn't sell."

Walter swallowed hard, the sour tang of champagne rising in his throat. "Yeah, I know her."

"Perfect!" Constant slapped his shoulder, practically bouncing. "Mind introducing us? Our group is itching to invest in the culture scene..."

Before he could finish, the awards ceremony began.

When the host announced the "Young Artist of the Year" award, the lights dimmed, leaving only a single spotlight on the center of the stage.

The moment Regina's name echoed through the hall, applause erupted like a tidal wave.

Walter watched as Regina, both familiar and yet so unfamiliar, walked slowly onto the stage. The hem of her dress swayed with every step, and the emerald bracelet on her wrist glowed softly under the spotlight.

She accepted the award and said softly, "Thank you."

Reporters crowded in, shoving microphones at her from every direction.

A reporter asked, "Ms. Chandler, it's said you stepped away from the art world for twelve years to focus on your family. What drove you to return and make such a stunning comeback?"

The camera zoomed in, broadcasting her face across the exhibition screens. Fine lines traced the corners of her eyes, but her gaze was sharp and luminous.

"Death," Regina replied.

The entire hall fell silent.

Regina paused, her eyes scanning the sea of faces, lingering for a moment before turning back to the camera.

She continued, "The death of my creative spirit. When you spend too long living for others, you forget you have wings of your own. But luckily..."

She lifted the trophy, "I found myself again."

Applause erupted again, even louder than before.

The champagne glass in Walter's hand gave a quiet snap, splitting down the side. Cold champagne spilled over his fingers, but he barely felt it.