Isabelle, blissfully unaware, had committed a grievous faux pas in the gilded arena of high society.As her former friend, I could read every flicker of her expression. She was basking in smug pride, opening her gift box with a flourish, eager to dazzle Clara with her offering.“Luna, this is from me and my husband, Damian—a painting by L. Quill, the latest sensation. Collectors are already offering fifty million for it.”L. Quill, a prodigy who’d burst onto the scene in recent years, painted landscapes that captivated the art world. His works weren’t just visually stunning; they enveloped viewers in the scenes—breezes rustling, rain pattering, cicadas humming—as if stepping into the canvas itself. His paintings were near impossible to acquire, each one a treasure.“Thank you,” Clara said, her smile polite as she studied the artwork before gesturing to her butler to stow it away.But Isabelle wasn’t content with a mere acknowledgment. She pressed on, her voice brimming with self-impor
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