* FREEBIES * Chapter 198

The room was already buzzing when Mr. Remmington carefully set the two paintings aside and began rolling up the torn one. His normally serene expression was furrowed with obvious displeasure.

“Who tore this?” he asked, his tone sharp, the reverence he held for his own work bleeding through each word. “I spent more than a month painting this. What a waste.”

His eyes scanned the room and landed on Serena, who met his gaze with calm defiance. Wordlessly, she raised a finger and pointed—straight at Madam Vanderbilt.

The color drained from Vivienne Vanderbilt’s face.

Mr. Remmington’s brows knitted further. “Madam Vanderbilt, are you saying you destroyed my painting?”

“W-Wait a minute!” she stammered. “You mean… that painting is real?”

His stare was scathing. “Of course it’s real. I painted it with my own hands. How could I not recognize my own work?”

Gasps rippled through the audience.

“I was offered three hundred million at the last auction for that piece, and I refused to sell it,” he added flatly. “And now it’s been mutilated—over what? Pettiness?”

Vivienne looked like she might collapse right there. Her lips opened, but no words came out.

Mr. Remmington rolled the canvas with care. “I never thought I’d see the day someone of your standing would confuse a fake for an original. No wonder someone had to take legal action against you. You treat imitations like treasures and destroy the real thing. One day, you'll regret it.”

Victoria stood frozen, her limbs leaden. Her mind reeled.

The painting she had spent six hundred million on… was fake?

She had practically emptied her family’s coffers trying to impress Madam Vanderbilt, and now it had all backfired.

“N-No…” she murmured. “That’s impossible. Mr. Remmington, please, please look again—”

He barely glanced at her, his disgust evident. “I chose not to take you as a student because I sensed your lack of sincerity. But now I see I underestimated your recklessness. Not only did you attempt to meddle in another person’s marriage, but you used a forgery to do it—and cost me one of my finest works.”

He stepped back from the table, his hands folded behind him.

“I won’t sell my work to either of you—ever again,” he declared.

Then, like a viper striking, he turned to the appraiser.

“And you—” his voice was like a whip—“how dare you claim my own painting is a fake? Do you even understand the basics of art authentication? You're not an appraiser, you're a fraud.”

The appraiser’s face crumbled. Trembling, he dropped to his knees, begging. But it was too late. His reputation was ruined in front of New York's most influential eyes.

Mr. Remmington shook his head in disappointment. He turned to Serena, who nodded in gratitude and followed him toward the exit.

No one dared to stop her. The woman who just moments ago had been mocked now moved through the room like a storm no one could touch.

But just as she reached the doors, headlights flashed outside. A sleek black car pulled up.

Alexander Vanderbilt stepped out.

The crowd parted instinctively as he strode inside, radiating cold fury. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharper than ever. He had just returned from Charleston, where he’d been inundated with calls—first from Raphael, then Cordelia, and even his grandfather. All had demanded he return to New York and clean up the humiliation his family had suffered.

Now here he was, walking into the tail end of a disaster.

His sharp gaze immediately found Mr. Remmington. For a moment, he faltered.

“Mr. Remmington,” Alexander said, stiffly respectful.

The old artist didn’t respond. His lip curled in irritation, but before he could speak, Serena lightly tugged at his sleeve. It was a silent signal: Don’t say anything.

Mr. Remmington sighed heavily, clearly frustrated, but he relented. His flight was soon, and this scene had already sapped too much of his energy. He walked out, but not without throwing one last withering glance at the room.

Alexander didn’t understand what had just happened—but then, he saw her.

Serena.

At least… he thought it was her.

She looked different tonight—wearing a dowdy, mismatched outfit, oversized black glasses, and a heavy hat that shadowed most of her face. Acne was painted across her cheeks. Her figure looked fuller, her posture more reserved.

He frowned. Why would she come looking like this? Wasn't she always trying to be the center of attention? And yet, this wasn’t the woman he remembered. At least, not the version that fit neatly into his expectations.

He turned his attention back to the scandal unfolding inside, but his rage was already simmering.

Raphael had explained everything on the drive: his grandmother humiliated, Victoria ridiculed in public, and the Vanderbilt family reduced to a punchline.

All thanks to the woman standing in front of him.

“Stop,” Alexander commanded, his voice cold as steel.

Serena froze.

He moved before she could react—grabbing her arm and shoving her backward until her spine hit the trunk of a tree just outside the entrance. The bark bit into her back, her breath catching from the force.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he growled.

She winced, her hands instinctively reaching for his wrist as his grip tightened around her neck. His expression was thunderous, and his voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t get angry?”

The world around them blurred. The crowd inside remained unaware of what was happening just beyond the threshold. But Serena could feel the storm in him—like standing in front of a volcano right before it erupted.