Chapter 45

"Oh my God! I can't believe I'm meeting you in person, Isabella Grayson! Your artwork changed my life!"

The elegant woman clutched her pearls as tears welled in her eyes. "All these years watching your painting tutorials... Those delicate hands could only belong to a woman."

"But the power in your brushstrokes!" A gentleman in a tailored suit interjected. "The raw masculine energy in your landscapes - I would've sworn you were a man!"

"Your ink wash technique is transcendental," another admirer gushed. "Every piece tells a thousand stories. I've spent hours decoding the hidden symbolism."

Evelyn Carter stood frozen, the champagne flute trembling in her hand. The crowd's adoration washed over her like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping for air.

Beside her, Margaret Thorn dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She'd always sensed Evelyn's extraordinary talent, but never imagined her granddaughter-in-law was the reclusive artist whose works sold for millions.

Across the room, Victoria Dawson's manicured nails dug into her palms. Her plan to humiliate Evelyn had spectacularly backfired. Instead of exposing a fraud, she'd unveiled a genius.

The Blackwood family stood in stunned silence. Richard Blackwood adjusted his glasses repeatedly, as if the scene before him might change with each blink.

Just then, Ryan Sullivan approached Liam Blackwood with a phone. The military commander's expression remained unreadable as he studied the video playing on screen.

The footage showed slender fingers dancing across rice paper - three habitual strokes before the brush touched down. A distinctive mole adorned the right hand's knuckle.

"Sir," Ryan murmured. "There's no doubt. Mrs. Blackwood is Isabella Grayson."

Liam returned the phone with a terse nod. "Trace the account. Find out which galleries handled her auctions. And investigate every charity that received donations."

As Ryan departed, Evelyn finally processed the revelation. The hands in the video were unmistakably hers. The painting mannerisms - the way she tilted her wrist - mirrored her own movements exactly.

She turned to Margaret, finding joyful tears sparkling in the older woman's eyes. When she looked to Liam, his granite expression gave nothing away.

Nearby, whispers slithered through the crowd like snakes.

"An artist?" Penelope Hart scoffed. "With those prices? She must be laundering money."

Cassandra Blake sniffed. "Probably some marketing gimmick. No real talent could come from... her background."

Eleanor Blackwood clutched her husband's arm. "Richard, this can't be right. That... girl can't possibly be-"

"Look at the bids coming in for that piece she just painted," Richard interrupted. "Half a million already."

Eleanor's mouth worked soundlessly before she managed, "And she refused to sell? The foolish-"

"Precisely," Richard chuckled darkly. "If she's not Isabella Grayson, that refusal proves she's a con artist."

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. When the gala ended, Liam's driver escorted Evelyn back to her apartment.

During the ride, she pressed her forehead against the cool window, desperately searching her fractured memories. The idea that she might be this celebrated artist seemed impossible.

Isabella Grayson was generous, brilliant, revered. Evelyn couldn't reconcile that with the broken woman she'd become.

Something wasn't adding up. The pieces didn't fit. And the more she tried to force them together, the more certain she became - there had to be some terrible mistake.