Chapter 74: The Artistic Validation

The morning sunlight was sharp and unforgiving as it poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the gallery wing. Leo stood in front of his latest piece, a large canvas dominated by swirling blues and jagged, nervous lines of white. His hands were stained with charcoal, and his eyes were tired.

He heard the heavy doors at the end of the hall creak open. Two sets of footsteps approached. He didn't need to turn around to know it was them. The air always seemed to grow thicker when they entered a room.

"He’s here," Ivan said. His voice was bright, almost excited. "Julian Vane is in the foyer."

Leo felt a knot tie itself in his stomach. Julian Vane was the most feared art critic in the country. A single paragraph from him could make a career or bury it under a mountain of ridicule. "I’m not ready," Leo whispered, wiping his hands on a rag. "The varnish isn't even fully dry on the edges."

"You’re more than ready," Dmitri said, stepping up beside him. He looked at the painting with a strange, possessive intensity. "This is the best thing you’ve ever done. Even a man as cynical as Vane will see that."

A moment later, a thin man with silver hair and a sharp, hawk-like nose entered the room. He wore a tailored gray suit and carried himself with an air of immense boredom. This was Julian Vane. He didn't look at the twins. He didn't look at Leo. He walked straight to the center of the room and stared at the canvas.

The silence that followed was agonizing. Leo held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at Ivan, who was watching Vane with a calm smile. He looked at Dmitri, who had his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Finally, Vane spoke. His voice was like dry parchment. "The brushwork... it’s frantic. Almost desperate."

Leo stepped forward, his voice trembling slightly. "I wanted to capture the feeling of being... of being watched. Of never being truly alone."

Vane turned his head slowly, looking at Leo for the first time. "You’ve captured more than that, young man. You’ve captured the sound of a soul breaking. It’s raw. It’s honest. It’s the first thing I’ve seen in a decade that actually made me feel something other than irritation."

Leo’s heart leaped. Validation. It was what he had dreamed of since he first picked up a pencil in his bedroom back home. "You really think so?"

"I don't 'think' so," Vane snapped, though his eyes remained on the painting. "I know so. This piece will be the talk of the season. It’s a masterpiece of modern anxiety."

Vane spent another hour examining the other sketches and half-finished works in the wing. Every comment was a glowing tribute to Leo’s talent. By the time the critic left, Leo felt like he was floating. He had done it. He was a real artist.

But as the front doors clicked shut, the high began to fade. He looked at the twins. They were standing by the window, looking out at the gardens. They looked too satisfied. Too calm.

"He really liked it," Leo said, his voice trailing off.

"Of course he did," Ivan said, turning to him with a warm smile. "We told you he would."

Leo felt a cold shiver. We told you he would. He looked at Dmitri. "Dmitri... how did you get him to come here? Vane doesn't do private house calls. He hates the wealthy. He prides himself on his independence."

Dmitri shrugged, his expression smooth. "Everyone has a price, Leo. Or a favor they owe. Or a debt they need cleared."

The floating feeling vanished instantly. Leo felt like he had been dropped into icy water. "What does that mean? Did you pay him? Did you tell him what to say?"

"Leo, don't be dramatic," Ivan said, walking over to put a hand on Leo's shoulder. "Your work is brilliant. All we did was ensure the right person was in the room to see it. We gave you the stage. You did the rest."

"But if you paid for the stage, the applause isn't real!" Leo shouted, pushing Ivan’s hand away. "Did he say those things because he meant them, or because he’s on your payroll? Tell me the truth!"

Dmitri stepped closer, his shadow falling over Leo. His eyes weren't cold, but they were hard. "Does it matter? The world will read his review tomorrow. They will believe you are a genius. They will buy your paintings for millions. You will have the life you always wanted. Isn't that enough?"

"No!" Leo’s voice cracked. He felt a tear sting his eye. "It’s not enough if it’s a lie. I wanted to know if I was good. I wanted to know if I had a voice. If you bought his opinion, then I’m just a puppet in a very expensive show."

"You are not a puppet," Ivan whispered, his voice soft and pained. "We love your work, Leo. We wouldn't lie to you about that. We just wanted to protect you from the risk of being ignored. The art world is cruel. We made it kind for you."

Leo looked back at his painting. The blues and whites that had looked so powerful a moment ago now looked like a joke. He felt a deep, hollow ache in his chest. He had the validation he had prayed for, but it felt like ash in his mouth.

He’s lying, Leo thought as he looked at Dmitri’s calm face. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe I am a genius. But I’ll never know now. Every compliment, every award, every bit of fame... it will all have their fingerprints on it.

"I want to be alone," Leo said, his voice barely audible.

"Leo—" Ivan started.

"Leave me alone!" Leo screamed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

The twins exchanged a look. For a second, Leo saw a flash of genuine hurt in Ivan’s eyes, and a spark of frustration in Dmitri’s. But they didn't argue. They turned and walked out of the gallery wing, leaving Leo standing in the middle of his "masterpieces."

Leo sank to the floor, leaning his back against the cold wall. He looked at his charcoal-stained fingers. He had everything he ever wanted, and yet, he had never felt more like a failure. He stayed there for hours, a solitary figure in a room full

of expensive, beautiful lies.