The Renowned Painter's Forced Reveal

Torrie Holt, my cousin, stood up in front of the class and accused me of knowingly buying a counterfeit painting, claiming I had insulted a master of fine art.

Her voice trembled with outrage. "How could you slander a master who's made such incredible contributions to the world of painting? Don't you feel even a shred of guilt?"

The other students quickly joined in, yelling for me to get out of this prestigious art school.

Seriously? The so-called master they were all defending was me.

1

One evening, I was in my studio working on my latest piece, The Past, when a phone call from my mom interrupted me.

"Paulina, what do we do? Your dad's partnership just fell through!"

My mom usually spoke softly, but now her voice shook with panic. "Without this deal with Evonix Group, how are we supposed to survive this financial crisis?"

The partnership collapsed?

I dropped my paintbrush on the spot and rushed home.

My dad, Kole Holt, run an internet company. In recent years, market trends had shifted dramatically. He missed the wave of new tech and, coupled with the economic downturn, he was now on the brink of bankruptcy.

This partnership was his last shot at saving the company. He had poured all his effort into it, hoping this would turn things around.

I threw open the front door. "Dad! I thought you were confident about this deal. What happened?"

A soft, fragile voice replied before he could, "Paulina, I'm sorry. I'm the one who ruined the deal. Don't blame Uncle Kole. It's my fault."

I turned and saw Torrie looking up at me with wide, tear-filled eyes.

Apparently, my dad had been getting along well with Mr. Finch, the chairman of Evonix Group. Sensing a good vibe, my dad invited him over to our house for a visit.

When Mr. Finch saw a painting titled Echo of Two Wings hanging in our living room-supposedly by the famous artist Darren Higgins-he got even more enthusiastic. He was on the verge of signing the contract right then and there.

Just then, Torrie stepped forward, showing off her so-called expertise, and boldly declared that the painting was not an authentic work by Master Darren, but a highly convincing forgery.

Mr. Finch was a devoted fan of Master Darren. The moment he heard the painting might be a fake, he completely lost interest in doing business with my dad. After a few perfunctory remarks, he left in a hurry.

"Blame you?" I scoffed, staring her down. "And what good would that do? Are you going to invest in my dad's company and pull us through this crisis? Got a better solution up your sleeve?"

Torrie stood frozen, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Paulina, it really was my fault. But that painting is fake. I'm sure of it."

Like me, Torrie studied art.

About six months ago, she started helping people identify whether their paintings were real or not.

Whether it was luck or some freak talent, she never got it wrong.

She even authenticated a painting in the mayor's private collection. And it turned out to be genuine.

Since then, she had become something of a local legend. People called her a "genius appraiser."

2

Everyone in the family knew that Echo of Two Wings had been brought home by me.

My mom, maybe sensing I was upset, came to my room to comfort me. "Didn't you only spend a few hundred bucks on that painting just to decorate the living room? Who would've thought Mr. Finch would care so much? It's just bad luck, sweetheart."

But really, she didn't need to worry about me at all.

Because I was Master Darren. No one in the world would know better than I do whether that painting was real.

Echo of Two Wings was a piece I spent half a month painting.

After one of my solo exhibitions, it hit me that I had made a name for myself in the art world, yet there wasn't a single piece of mine hanging in my own home. I thought this particular painting had a lovely message, so I had it framed and personally supervised as it was installed in the living room.

I never told my parents about my identity as Darren. I made up some story about buying it on the street for a few hundred bucks.

Who could have knew that little lie would snowball into something like this?

After chatting with my mom for a bit more, I felt thirsty and headed downstairs for some water.

That was when I heard someone talking on the phone.

It was Torrie.

She sounded giddy. "Paulina still doesn't believe that painting's a fake. I'm the chosen one-I've got a special eye! That thing had no energy at all. One look and I knew it was a knockoff. My eye never fails!"

I stood there quietly, listening to the whole thing.

No wonder she had suddenly become a master at identifying forgeries without any formal training. How else could she gain such a reputation so quickly?

So, she could tell if a painting was real by sensing its aura?

Real paintings would have strong spiritual energy. Fakes were weak.

I touched my lips thoughtfully, amusement dancing in my eyes.

But that special eye Torrie had so much faith in-could it really tell real from fake?

After all, that Echo of Two Wings was as real as it got. I was the one who painted it.

3

My parents have been sighing nonstop at home these past few days.

If we didn't come up with something soon, the company was going to go bankrupt.

I packed up my painting supplies and got ready to head to campus.

I attend Central National Academy of Fine Arts, one of the country's top art institutions, with countless famous painters graduating from there every year.

Torrie, on the other hand, studied at some barely-known art college. But thanks to her sudden fame in art appraisal, her colleague had recommended her as an exchange student to our university for half a year.

Lucky me, she had been placed in my class..

When I walked into the classroom, my classmates were all huddled around Torrie, whose eyes were red like she had just cried a river.

The moment she saw me, she stepped forward and put on a pitiful look. "Paulina, I really didn't mean to mess up Uncle Kole's deal. Will you forgive me?"

Everyone turned to look at us, clearly enjoying the drama.

My temple twitched slightly. Oh wow, so she came here to play the victim now?

Before I could say a word, a girl in a red dress near Torrie burst out loudly, "What's the big deal? That Echo of Two Wings was obviously fake! Torrie just told the truth. What did she do wrong?"

That was Norah Sullivan, Torrie's friend and the class's resident hothead.

"The real problem is whoever hung that fake on the wall! No sense of judgment whatsoever. And Torrie, you're still trying to take the blame for her?" Norah added, giving me a pointed look.

"No, it's all my fault," Torrie said as tears streamed down her face. "Paulina only paid a few hundred bucks for Echo of Two Wings. I'm sure she just bought it to decorate the living room. I shouldn't have said anything."

As soon as she said that, the class exploded.

"A few hundred bucks?! Seriously?"

"Paintings by Master Darren go for tens of millions now, and they're practically priceless!"

"Even a toddler knows you can't buy a Darren original for that price."

"So she knowingly bought a fake? That's disgusting."

Everyone knew that students studying fine arts typically came from well-off families.

Especially at Central National Academy of Fine Arts-one of the country's top-tier art schools-where annual tuition alone could run into the tens or even hundreds of thousands.

Most students here were either rich or richer. They could easily afford the kind of "luxuries" regular people wouldn't even dare to look at.

That included the artwork hanging in their homes-always genuine pieces from respected artists. No one would just casually hang up a fake painting for decoration.

And since we were all art creators ourselves, we were extremely protective of intellectual property. Most of us despised forgeries with a passion.

So my act of knowingly hanging up a fake painting in my home was like I had kicked a hornet's nest to them.

The class was still buzzing with gossip when our professor walked in and began assigning our task for the morning.

"Today's a studio session. Pick your own theme and paint a landscape."

4

I set up my easel and prepared to start painting.

Right then, Danny Cooper squeezed in and took the spot beside me.

He was the son of a publicly listed company CEO.

Even at a place like our campus, where most students were already loaded, Danny's background stood out among the best.

His entire family loved art, and according to him, his grandfather was especially fond of oil painting. Among all the artists active today, the one the old man admired most was-of course-Darren.

Under that influence, Danny had become obsessed with Darren's work too.

He had studied every piece since Darren's debut and never missed a single exhibition.

If you ever asked him to talk about Darren's work, he could go on from dawn to dusk.

The reason he had taken a particular liking to me was because my painting style, in some ways, resembled Darren's.

Even though I had done everything I could to disguise that connection, including painting with my non-dominant left hand.

"What are you painting today, Paulina?" he asked, his charming eyes sparkling with curiosity.

"A stream," I replied, dipping my brush and beginning to paint.

Norah's voice rang out from behind me, full of sarcasm. "Wow, there she goes again-copying Master Darren's style to steal the spotlight."

Danny frowned at her words.

"Norah," Torrie tugged at her sleeve, "don't say that about her. She's still learning. It's normal for a student to imitate a master when they haven't found their own voice yet."

Norah burst out laughing, her eyes flashing with scorn. "Exactly. All these years of studying art, and now in her third year, she still doesn't have a style of her own? All she knows how to do is copy others. What a waste."

Without even lifting my head, I replied, still painting, "Funny. Some people can't even manage to copy properly. Wasn't it you who tried to mimic Darren's work a while back and ended up with something neither here nor there?"

Norah's face turned bright red in an instant.

Mimicking another artist's style might seem easy, but in practice, it was incredibly hard to pull off. Most people never managed to capture the essence.

That was why, even though I used my weaker left hand to paint, my work still consistently scored top marks.

5

After class, I handed in my landscape painting and was just about to leave when a hand grabbed my wrist.

"Paulina, I know you're copying his style to improve your skills. But if you truly admire Master Darren, then maybe don't imitate his style anymore," Torrie said, looking at me with sincere eyes.

She bit her lip, hesitating. "Master Darren doesn't like it when people copy his work."

I looked at her like she had lost her mind and gave my wrist a hard tug. But she didn't let go.

Danny, standing next to me, leaned in with interest. "Wait, Torrie-you're a fan of Master Darren too? What a coincidence! But I don't remember him ever saying he didn't like people imitating his style."

A faint blush crept onto Torrie's cheeks. "He hasn't said anything publicly. But a few days ago, when I was talking to him, he said every artist should find their own unique style instead of constantly mimicking others."

Huh?

I didn't remember ever saying that.

Danny blinked in disbelief. "Did I hear that right? You... talked to Master Darren?"

Torrie froze, like she just realized she had let something slip, and quickly clapped a hand over her mouth.

Norah started shaking her excitedly, and the rest of the class turned to stare at her.

Apparently unable to keep it a secret any longer, Torrie squeezed her eyes shut and blurted out, "Yes! I met Master Darren at an art exhibition. He really admired my ability to spot forgeries and gave me his contact info. We've become good friends!"

What?

Was I hearing things?

I admired Torrie's ability to spot fakes?

We were good friends?

The classroom exploded with chatter as everyone rushed over to crowd around her.

"Torrie, Master Darren recognized your talent? That's amazing!"

"Wait, you mean the Darren? The one the mayor himself couldn't even get to show up?"

6

News that Torrie personally knew Darren had spread like wildfire through campus.

The next day, the professor began critiquing our landscape assignments.

When it came to mine, he paused briefly, then frowned and delivered a sharp critique. "Paulina, your work shows too much imitation. It doesn't meet the standard. Hand in a new piece after class."

My brows furrowed.

This same professor had always praised me before, often giving me top marks and complimenting the depth in my work. And now, overnight, his entire attitude had flipped?

I spoke up, confused and a little annoyed. "But sir, my painting is completely original. I didn't copy anyone. Why is it being marked as a fail?"

He clearly hadn't expected me to challenge him so directly in front of everyone. His mild expression hardened on the spot.

"Oh, really? You're saying you didn't copy anyone?" he sneered. "Take a good look at your painting style-it's practically identical to Master Darren's. The only reason I didn't fail you before was because I thought you had potential. I didn't want to crush a promising student. But now that Master Darren has clearly said he doesn't want anyone imitating his style, this kind of behavior? It's plagiarism!"

Murmurs rippled through the classroom.

"Is she for real? She's a plagiarist and still dares to argue with the professor? She should count herself lucky no one's reported her!"

"I feel sick. I love Darren's work-and knowing she's out here copying him like that? Gross."

Torrie shot me a smug little smile.

I stood up slowly and said, one word at a time, "I never expected a teacher at our university to be like this-believing gossip over facts, lacking the ability to judge right from wrong, and blindly siding against his own student."

"What did you just say, Paulina?!" the professor demanded, his face red with anger.

"Gossip?" someone in the class instantly picked up on it. "Wait-does Paulina mean Torrie was lying about knowing Master Darren?"

"I've had my doubts, honestly. That's Darren we're talking about! Even my dad's boss couldn't get a meeting with him!"

"Exactly! You think someone like that would just casually become friends with a student like us?"

One by one, skeptical voices started chiming in, loud enough for the professor to hear. His previously firm expression began to waver, and he glanced over at Torrie, doubt creeping into his eyes.

But Torrie didn't seem rattled at all. "I do have a good relationship with Master Darren," she said confidently. "In fact, I'm honored to have received his personal permission to organize an upcoming exhibition of his work here in Bellridge. I'm one of the main coordinators. I'd love for our professor and classmates to come see it in person."

I happened to be drinking water at the time and nearly choked on it.

I authorized Torrie to host an exhibition?

This was news to me.

But the class erupted in excitement. Even the professor stepped down from the podium and asked Torrie if she could save him a ticket.

"I've always wanted to see one of Master Darren's paintings in person," he said with emotion. "But I've never once managed to get a ticket to any of his shows. I can't believe I finally have the chance, and it's all thanks to my own student."

I stared at Torrie, who stood there soaking up the attention like it was her birthright.

Yesterday, I might've chalked it all up to her just talking nonsense, making up some story about knowing Darren.

But now, the way she stood there, completely composed and brimming with confidence, made me hesitate. This wasn't just empty bragging anymore. It seemed like she really was planning to host an exhibition in Darre's name.

And to do that, she would've needed my personal authorization.

But I never received any such request from Torrie. So who exactly gave permission for this exhibition to happen?

Who was pretending to be me?

7

Before I knew it, the day of the exhibition had arrived.

I held the ticket Torrie had graciously handed me and followed the bustling crowd through the entrance.

The deeper I went, the more disturbed I felt.

The entire place was filled with forgeries of my work-highly convincing ones. The imitation techniques were so refined, they could almost pass for the real thing.

If I hadn't poured my heart and soul into each of these pieces myself, memorizing every detail, even I might've struggled to tell them apart.

Nearby, two women were admiring a painting as they chatted.

"I heard they're auctioning these pieces off after the show. I'm so excited!"

"I know! If I can manage to snag one of Master Darren's paintings, I'll die happy. I even emptied out my savings for this auction-just hope I can beat the competition!"

They were planning to sell these fakes?

My jaw clenched. I nearly cursed out loud.

There were dozens of pieces here. And judging by market prices, each one could sell for hundreds of thousands-maybe even millions.

And once the buyers realized they had been duped, it would be too late. The people behind this scam would've vanished with the money by then.

Even if I had nothing to do with the auction legally, Master Darren would be forever tainted in the art world.

I couldn't let that happen. I had to stop the auction before it began and expose whoever was behind this mess.

As I stared at the forgeries, mind racing, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jerald Chapman, the director of the National Art Museum.