* FREEBIES for our loyal supporters * 2nd * Chapter 198

Meanwhile, across the city from the gilded halls of the Laurent estate, Ava stepped out of her Upper West Side townhouse, her steps light but her expression steeled with purpose.

Waiting by the curb, leaning casually against his sleek black sports car, was Alexei Volkov. He flicked the end of his cigarette into a nearby trash can the second he spotted her.

“Ava,” he called, straightening. “You’re really going to show up looking like that?”

His voice held an edge of disbelief. “Tonight’s going to be crawling with paparazzi and society’s vultures. You’ll be photographed, and once those images start circulating, it won’t take long. Alexander’s no idiot—he’ll figure it out. You think he’ll let you walk away if he finds out you’ve been lying to him this whole time?”

Ava paused, her brow knitting in concern. The last thing she wanted was for her identity as Alexander’s wife—Serena—to come out tonight. Not here. Not now. Not with so many eyes watching.

“I’ll get a hat,” she murmured, already turning to go back inside.

Alexei caught her wrist gently but firmly. “No need. Let me handle it.”

He had no intention of letting tonight spiral out of control. He’d already made one foolish mistake, and if things unraveled again, it would be his head Alexander came for first.

Let Alexander stay tangled up with Victoria and her schemes, Alexei thought grimly. Ava didn’t belong in that mess—certainly not in the Vanderbilt family’s endless tangle of manipulation and power plays.

Within the hour, he had Ava seated in a private, high-end makeup studio tucked away in a quiet corner of Manhattan. The artist he brought in was swift and precise, her hands moving like magic.

Heavy foundation dotted with faux acne disguised Ava’s flawless skin. She was draped in oversized, drab clothing in unflattering tones of mustard and brown—choices deliberately designed to repel the camera’s gaze. A thick wool hat was pulled low over her forehead, and square black glasses obscured her eyes. Her bangs were styled to fall across her face in uneven chunks. What little skin remained visible had been slightly reddened, making her look like she was suffering from a seasonal allergy outbreak.

Ava stared at her reflection in the mirror, blinking at the transformation. She looked nothing like herself.

Alexei crossed his arms, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Your own father wouldn’t recognize you. Just say you had a pollen allergy flare-up.”

Ava allowed herself a wry smile. “It’s convincing.”

She glanced at the time on her phone. “They’ve probably been waiting for me.”

She reached for the painting—the one her mentor had entrusted to her—and cradled it carefully in her arms.

“I’ll go ahead,” she said softly.

“I’m driving,” Alexei said firmly. “Like hell I’m going to miss watching that snake pit implode.”

The car ride was silent, tension thick between them. When they finally reached the Laurent estate, Ava inhaled deeply. She could already see the silhouettes of expensive cars and finely dressed guests clustering near the front entrance.

The spotlight was waiting.

To avoid any unnecessary whispers, she stepped out of the car alone, pulling the brim of her hat lower.

Tonight wasn’t about elegance.

It was about the truth.

And it was about to shake the foundations of New York’s most powerful families.

--- 

The heavy doors of the Laurent estate creaked open.

All heads turned.

Serena stepped inside, clutching the torn painting in her gloved hands. The room, grand and gilded with chandeliers, held nearly two dozen well-dressed guests—all carefully curated members of New York's elite. The long table at the center held an air of solemnity, flanked by velvet chairs, and at its head sat the renowned appraiser, waiting with composed impatience.

Her arrival sliced through the murmuring like a blade.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Serena said, her voice lower than usual—hoarse and faintly muffled beneath her thick scarf and medical mask.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

She wore a shapeless olive-green coat, frumpy and wrinkled, and an oversized knitted hat nearly swallowed her head. Her short hair was flattened beneath it, and her glasses—square, black-rimmed, unflattering—perched on her nose like a relic of outdated fashion. Faux acne dotted her exposed cheeks, and a heavy fringe shadowed most of her face.

To the crowd, she looked barely recognizable.

Madam Vivienne Vanderbilt curled her lip in disgust. “Serena, what on earth are you wearing? What game are you playing now?”

Serena adjusted the painting beneath her arm and replied flatly, “I’ve developed a highly contagious skin allergy. I'm just being considerate—unless you'd prefer I remove the mask and share it with everyone.”

She reached for her mask, her fingers teasing the edge.

Madam Vanderbilt recoiled immediately and waved a hand with a scowl. “Keep it on! Everyone here is far too dignified to be infected by whatever you've got.”

Unbothered, Serena stepped forward and gently laid the torn painting on the long table. It had been meticulously preserved in its damaged state—split clean down the middle, the canvas edges frayed but still clinging to their artistry.

Gasps followed.

Even at a glance, both paintings—the one Serena brought and the one Victoria had gifted—looked nearly identical. Brushstrokes, palettes, even the signature in the corner. To the untrained eye, they were the same.

But only one was real.

Out of the corner of her eye, Serena saw Victoria approaching, dressed in a flowing white designer gown that shimmered under the chandelier light. Diamonds sparkled at her neck—a stunning necklace worth millions. Her lips were painted a soft rose, and her hair was styled in elegant waves, perfectly framing her smug expression.

Victoria’s heels clicked rhythmically as she approached, confidence oozing from every step.

She smiled as if greeting a child. “Hello. I’m Victoria. Nice to finally meet you.”

Serena didn’t even blink. “Ah, the mistress who keeps asking my husband to divorce me. I remember now. Didn’t you show up uninvited at Le Châteauesque Manor? I heard you were politely asked to leave. The servants were talking about it for days.”

The room fell silent. Dead silent.

The smile froze on Victoria’s face.

Color drained from her cheeks.

“I’m not a mistress,” she said tightly, forcing a laugh. “You’re just jealous—"

“Oh?” Serena tilted her head, her tone perfectly measured. “Then who is it that calls my husband at all hours? Who demands his attention at every event? If not a mistress, then what? A clingy ghost from his past?”

Victoria’s mouth opened and closed. No words came.

Serena’s gaze swept the room. “Funny,” she added, “Madam Vanderbilt once accused the Morales family of poor upbringing. But for all our flaws, we were taught not to covet another woman’s husband. Looking around this opulent home, it seems good breeding doesn’t always come with fine china.”

Several guests coughed awkwardly. Some even chuckled.

Madam Vanderbilt leaned forward, face flushed with anger. “Serena, Alexander doesn’t love you. That man will divorce you—sooner or later.”

Serena turned to face her. Her tone stayed even. “He might. That’s between him and me. But for now, he is my husband. That makes Victoria a mistress. At best—an ex-girlfriend. Ladies,” she turned to the other women in the room, “how would you feel if your husband’s ex showed up flaunting herself like a peacock at every family event?”

Low murmurs filled the room.

“I always thought Victoria was shameless,” one whispered.

“She’s flaunting a necklace her ex gave her in front of his wife. That’s just tacky,” said another.

“Laurents act like they’re old money, but the class is all show,” someone muttered.

Victoria’s proud demeanor began to crumble.

She clenched her fists. “You’re just bitter because he doesn’t love you.”

Serena chuckled. “He married me. That makes everything he owns legally half mine. Including that seventy-million-dollar necklace you’re flaunting. If I sued you for theft right now, I’d probably win.”

Victoria’s face went stark white.

The whispers grew louder.

People leaned closer to examine the necklace now glowing with a different sort of attention—not envy, but scrutiny.

For a moment, Victoria looked as if she might collapse.

Serena, perfectly composed, stepped back and gestured toward the torn painting. “Shall we begin the appraisal?”

Just as the atmosphere thickened with tension, Madam Vanderbilt lifted her chin and made an attempt to steer the narrative.

“Enough. We’re not here for idle gossip,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “We’ve gathered tonight to appraise the paintings—not waste time on scandalous side talk.”

Her voice, though composed, was laced with irritation. With a glance toward the head of the table, she added, “Let’s begin.”

The appraiser—an aging man in a navy suit with half-moon spectacles—cleared his throat and adjusted his gloves. The room quieted immediately as all eyes turned to him. Before him lay the two paintings, one pristine, the other torn nearly in half, edges curled and fibers frayed.

Victoria, still flushed from the earlier exchange, kept her head high, though the stiffness in her posture betrayed her wounded pride. She stood to the side, arms folded tightly, her jaw clenched.

The appraiser leaned closer to the canvases, studying them under a small portable light. He took out a loupe and began a meticulous inspection, slowly moving back and forth between the two.

Ten long minutes passed in silence.

Finally, he lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. “After a detailed analysis… I conclude that the painting provided by Miss Laurent is authentic.” He gestured to the flawless canvas. “The torn one appears to be a replica.”

A hush fell over the room.

Serena didn’t blink. Her expression remained unreadable, though the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossed her eyes—an anticipation that had yet to reach its final note.

Madam Vanderbilt didn’t wait.

With a triumphant step forward, she practically crowed, “Serena, do you have anything left to say for yourself?”

She was savoring the moment. If she could bury Serena’s credibility tonight, she’d not only humiliate her, but also quietly remind Mr. Vanderbilt Sr. who truly held court in this family.

But Serena simply smiled, her voice cool and even. “Yes, I do. I say that your appraiser was bought.”

The guests gasped.

Madam Vanderbilt nearly choked. “You—! You shameless little—”

She was so incensed she could barely speak. “Trying to win favor with a counterfeit, and when you’re exposed, you throw tantrums and make lawsuits? You don’t deserve to carry the Vanderbilt name! Guards, throw her out! I don’t want to see her in New York again!”

Chairs scraped as the bodyguards began moving, but Serena held up a single hand. “Not so fast.”

Her voice sliced clean through the tension.

“I brought my own appraiser. Surely you don’t expect your man to be the only authority on truth?” Her gaze was steady, calm, even as the room whispered with renewed interest.

Madam Vanderbilt’s fury deepened. “Fine! Let’s see who you dragged in to play pretend.”

The doors opened.

A murmur rippled across the gathering as a silver-haired man stepped into view, walking with effortless grace. He had a small, tidy beard and wore a traditional black mandarin-collar coat, his hands tucked behind his back as if he’d just stepped out from a centuries-old portrait.

The crowd went still.

Someone whispered first, then several followed—“Is that…?”

“…Mr. Caspian Remmington?”

“The artist himself?!”

Yes. It was him.

The legendary, reclusive master painter—Caspian Remmington. A man whose public appearances were rarer than snowfall in June. The air in the room shifted. Even the most jaded socialites sat up straighter, sensing the weight of his presence.

Madam Vanderbilt stiffened in disbelief.

Her lips parted in a gasp as she reached for her glass. “Mr. Remmington… what an honor. I didn’t know you were in New York!”

“I’m only passing through,” he said, his voice cool and deliberate. “Flying out tomorrow morning, actually. But I happened upon this little gathering, and I must admit, I’m curious.”

He approached the table without further word.

His eyes moved over the two paintings with practiced ease. His hand reached for neither. Instead, he studied, observing both the technique and the intent—seeing beyond the pigments and strokes.

Madam Vanderbilt saw her opening. “Perfect timing, Mr. Remmington. That woman”—she pointed a finger at Serena—“tried to deceive us all with a fake. But now you can prove it yourself and clear this farce.”

She sat back, already tasting victory.

Serena stood silently, arms at her sides, her face obscured by oversized glasses and the brim of her hat.

Mr. Remmington didn’t answer right away. The tension was unbearable.

Finally, he looked up, straightening.

“This one,” he said, pointing to the torn painting Serena had brought, “is the original.”

Dead silence.

Every breath in the room caught mid-inhale.

Madam Vanderbilt’s expression collapsed into blank confusion. “What…?”

“The painting Miss Laurent gave you,” Mr. Remmington said without emotion, “is a forgery. A very well-done one, yes. But forged.”

Gasps burst like firecrackers.

Victoria’s knees buckled. She steadied herself against the nearest chair, lips trembling.

“No… no, that’s impossible. I—I bought that painting at an international auction! I spent six billion on it!”

Mr. Remmington turned his steely gaze toward her. “Then you were duped. I know my own work. And the one you brought here… is not it.”

All the blood drained from Victoria’s face.

The bodyguard who had approached Serena just moments before now backed away, his hands raised, as if she’d grown fangs.

Serena turned toward Madam Vanderbilt, voice calm as water. “I warned you. But you preferred to gamble your reputation to protect a fraud.”

Guests murmured louder now.

“She brought Mr. Remmington himself…”

“And they tried to throw her out.”

“Embarrassing. Absolutely embarrassing.”

Madam Vanderbilt looked like she might faint. She grasped the arm of her chair, eyes darting around the room as if searching for a way to undo the last five minutes.

But there was none.

And Serena?

She simply straightened her back, folded her hands, and turned toward the crowd, the fire of vindication burning quietly behind her glasses...