Chapter 1 · The Genius Who Didn't Know Who I Was

Chapter 1

I never thought I'd pick up a brush again. But when an international charity auction invited me to paint, to raise money for kids who'd lost everything in a disaster—I couldn't say no.

I was deep in my work when a mocking laugh echoed from the audience.

"Another one of those boring sketches? God, that's so lame. Now oil painting's real art," he said.

Not bothering to respond, I just focused on my painting.

But just as I laid down the final stroke, the man stormed up to the stage, and ripped my painting in half.

My girlfriend gasped. I thought she'd defend me. Instead, she turned to me. "Finnley, just apologize. You don't know who that man is. You can't afford to piss him off."

I stared at them both, and felt something inside me go perfectly still. "That painting's worth three hundred million," I said flatly. "Cash or card?"

*****

I didn't expect that my first public appearance in twenty years would start with a storm of boos.

And right after that—another voice, dripping with sarcasm. "What the hell is this rustic crap? You really brought that to an art show?"

I looked up. A young guy stood there, arms folded, wearing that kind of smirk only the cocky can pull off.

It was my first time stepping back into the spotlight after twenty years away.

Tonight was supposed to be about kindness—about helping children. Not about ego.

I wasn't about to let some random jerk ruin this for me.

So I ignored him and kept painting.

But halfway through, the guy jumped onto the stage.

Just as I was about to finish, he snatched my work away.

"Seriously? You call this art? You just grab a pen, scribble a few lines, and expect people to buy it?" he sneered.

He tossed it to the floor as if it were trash.

I knelt down, checking carefully. Thank God, the paper wasn't torn. Then I stood, my voice low and sharp.

"What gives you the right to throw my painting?" I demanded.

He snorted, "This ugly mess? You think anyone would buy that? You're dragging down the whole damn show. Do everyone a favor and get lost."

That was it. I was furious.

Sketching—true sketching—wasn't some cheap trick. It was art, something sacred. How dare he trample on it like that?

But before I could even speak, someone yanked me down from the stage.

"Open your eyes, loser," the boy sneered. "I'll show you what real art looks like."

He strode up confidently, took a brush from his assistant, and started preparing.

Whispers spread through the crowd. "Hey, that brush looks really familiar!"

"Isn't that the prize from the National Oil Painting Championship?"

"Oh my god it is! That's Adrian Knight, the prodigy who won gold last month!"

So that was who he was. Adrian Knight.

He was a painting prodigy—barely an adult, and he'd already taken home the gold medal at the National Oil Painting Championship.

He got a huge fanbase online.

But none of that mattered. Even the most celebrated artist had no right to destroy another's work.

A painting was a painter's pride—his soul on paper.

I demanded an apology.

But Adrian just glanced at me with a smirk and scoffed, "You? You think you're even worth my time?"

Then he ignored me completely and went right back to painting.

Something inside me snapped. I walked up, grabbed his wrist mid-stroke. "I said—apologize."

The sudden pull made his brush streak across the canvas, leaving a crooked black scar.

"You son of a bitch! You ruined my painting!" he shouted.

He was absolutely furious.

I snorted. "Oh, so you can mess with my painting, but I can't touch yours?"

He glared at me, fury in his eyes. "Don't you dare compare your garbage to my art. My paintings sell for over 30 thousand. You? You couldn't sell one for bus fare, you washed-up hack."

I let out a cold laugh in my head, then said calmly, "Who's to say my painting isn't worth 30 thousand? Maybe it'll fetch 300 thousand, three million, or even 30 million dollars."

Adrian froze for a second, then burst out laughing. "Why not just say 300 million? What, are you gonna tell me next that you're the sketching prodigy, Finn Stone?"

"You guessed it," I said quietly. "I am."

Chapter 1

I never thought I'd pick up a brush again. But when an international charity auction invited me to paint, to raise money for kids who'd lost everything in a disaster—I couldn't say no.

I was deep in my work when a mocking laugh echoed from the audience.

"Another one of those boring sketches? God, that's so lame. Now oil painting's real art," he said.

Not bothering to respond, I just focused on my painting.

But just as I laid down the final stroke, the man stormed up to the stage, and ripped my painting in half.

My girlfriend gasped. I thought she'd defend me. Instead, she turned to me. "Finnley, just apologize. You don't know who that man is. You can't afford to piss him off."

I stared at them both, and felt something inside me go perfectly still. "That painting's worth three hundred million," I said flatly. "Cash or card?"

*****

I didn't expect that my first public appearance in twenty years would start with a storm of boos.

And right after that—another voice, dripping with sarcasm. "What the hell is this rustic crap? You really brought that to an art show?"

I looked up. A young guy stood there, arms folded, wearing that kind of smirk only the cocky can pull off.

It was my first time stepping back into the spotlight after twenty years away.

Tonight was supposed to be about kindness—about helping children. Not about ego.

I wasn't about to let some random jerk ruin this for me.

So I ignored him and kept painting.

But halfway through, the guy jumped onto the stage.

Just as I was about to finish, he snatched my work away.

"Seriously? You call this art? You just grab a pen, scribble a few lines, and expect people to buy it?" he sneered.

He tossed it to the floor as if it were trash.

I knelt down, checking carefully. Thank God, the paper wasn't torn. Then I stood, my voice low and sharp.

"What gives you the right to throw my painting?" I demanded.

He snorted, "This ugly mess? You think anyone would buy that? You're dragging down the whole damn show. Do everyone a favor and get lost."

That was it. I was furious.

Sketching—true sketching—wasn't some cheap trick. It was art, something sacred. How dare he trample on it like that?

But before I could even speak, someone yanked me down from the stage.

"Open your eyes, loser," the boy sneered. "I'll show you what real art looks like."

He strode up confidently, took a brush from his assistant, and started preparing.

Whispers spread through the crowd. "Hey, that brush looks really familiar!"

"Isn't that the prize from the National Oil Painting Championship?"

"Oh my god it is! That's Adrian Knight, the prodigy who won gold last month!"

So that was who he was. Adrian Knight.

He was a painting prodigy—barely an adult, and he'd already taken home the gold medal at the National Oil Painting Championship.

He got a huge fanbase online.

But none of that mattered. Even the most celebrated artist had no right to destroy another's work.

A painting was a painter's pride—his soul on paper.

I demanded an apology.

But Adrian just glanced at me with a smirk and scoffed, "You? You think you're even worth my time?"

Then he ignored me completely and went right back to painting.

Something inside me snapped. I walked up, grabbed his wrist mid-stroke. "I said—apologize."

The sudden pull made his brush streak across the canvas, leaving a crooked black scar.

"You son of a bitch! You ruined my painting!" he shouted.

He was absolutely furious.

I snorted. "Oh, so you can mess with my painting, but I can't touch yours?"

He glared at me, fury in his eyes. "Don't you dare compare your garbage to my art. My paintings sell for over 30 thousand. You? You couldn't sell one for bus fare, you washed-up hack."

I let out a cold laugh in my head, then said calmly, "Who's to say my painting isn't worth 30 thousand? Maybe it'll fetch 300 thousand, three million, or even 30 million dollars."

Adrian froze for a second, then burst out laughing. "Why not just say 300 million? What, are you gonna tell me next that you're the sketching prodigy, Finn Stone?"

"You guessed it," I said quietly. "I am."