Chapter2

The screen lights up. I project two images from my phone side by side on the massive screen.

On the left is the digital archive of this painting in the banquet hall. On the right is a high-resolution scan of the universally recognized original, retrieved from an encrypted database.

In the deathly silent hall, only my voice remains.

"Look at the bottom right corner, the final stroke of the master's signature." On the screen, the difference between the two brushstrokes is nakedly exposed before everyone. "The original has a habitual, extremely subtle upward flick at the end. But this one," my cursor points to the 'masterpiece' in the banquet hall, "this is smooth, even a bit blunt."

I switch back to my phone and open another file.

It's a scanned paper report, the paper yellowed, the edges bearing traces of a wax seal.

"This authentication report was personally signed and sealed by the late authority, Master Dmitri Volkov, fifteen years ago. He made a completely consistent description of the brushstroke characteristics at this same location on the original. This report, along with the original itself, is the inheritance my mother left me."

The crowd below explodes. Camera flashes go crazy.

I can see Robert's face turn from pale to flushed red. Eleanor grips her wine glass so hard her knuckles turn white.

"Absurd!" The family's long-term art consultant strides onto the stage, his face bearing the fury of being offended. "Master Volkov passed away years ago, there's no way to verify the authenticity of this so-called report! This is clearly a crude forgery, exploiting the reputation of the deceased!" He turns to the audience, trying to regain control, "Ladies and gentlemen, don't be misled by these emotional, baseless accusations! This painting has undergone our team's most rigorous..."

"Then let's verify it on the spot." I interrupt him, my voice not loud but cutting through his defense.

The consultant glares at me. "What?"

I ignore him and operate my phone directly, making a video call.

Robert takes a step forward, as if to stop me, but Chris holds him back, shaking his head with a grim expression.

The call is answered.

The screen darkens briefly, then lights up. An old man sits behind an antique desk, his hair silver-white, wearing thin-framed glasses. Behind him on a shelf, one can vaguely see the outline of a rectangular frame covered with dark velvet cloth.

A wave of suppressed gasps ripples through the hall. Many people recognize him.

"Good evening, Leanne." The old man's voice comes through the speakers, somewhat hoarse but exceptionally clear. He glances at the chaotic background on my end, "It seems you've chosen an 'appropriate' moment."

"Master Volkov!" Dr. Harrison cries out, the color draining from his face instantly.

The old man nods slightly, his gaze sweeping across as if he can see through the screen to the crowd below. "Harrison. It's been a long time."

His tone is flat, yet it makes Dr. Harrison involuntarily step back.

"Master," I hold up my phone, the screen facing the camera, displaying the report, "they say my mother's authentication report is forged. I need you to tell everyone personally."

The old man leans closer, examining it carefully. After a few seconds, he nods.

"This report was sealed by my own hand. The seal, handwriting, paper—all authentic. I authenticated and documented all the key features of that painting's original, including the signature brushstroke you're currently debating." He pauses, his gaze seeming to drift to somewhere distant beyond the screen, "The original is currently in my safekeeping. This was my promise to Anna—Leanne's mother. To return it to her daughter when she deems appropriate, or to give it to where it truly belongs."

The livestream comment section, after a brief pause, is instantly flooded with a tsunami of messages. The scrolling speed is almost impossible to read.

"My God!"

"So the Vanderbilts have been selling fakes this whole time?"

"This is a scandalous bombshell!"

"Look at the stock price! It's dropping!"

On stage, the auctioneer's face turns deathly pale as he speaks urgently into his earpiece.

The event organizer rushes up, snatches the gavel, and shouts into the microphone with a trembling voice:

"Due to... due to major controversy, this auction item is... immediately suspended! Suspended!"

The gavel falls with a dull, feeble thud.

Robert Vanderbilt shoves Chris aside and rushes up to me in several strides.

The muscles in his face are twitching, his eyes filled with fury and a near-manic disbelief.

He doesn't look at the screen or the Master, only stares at me, his voice forced through clenched teeth, low enough that only we can hear.

"You little bitch," each word drips with venom, "what the hell are you trying to do?"

I meet his gaze and press the lock button on my phone. The Master's image disappears, and the surrounding chaos comes flooding back.

But this is only the beginning. What I have in my hands is far more than just a painting.