The exhibition was a glittering affair, the gallery's white walls lined with art, the air thick with perfume and ambition. Amber's triptych, Becoming, glowed under soft lights, its panels drawing gasps from the crowd, their colors a journey of courage. Charles's dance-inspired drawings, displayed nearby, caught a Westlake scout's eye, their lines fluid, alive. They stood together, their hands brushing, a quiet pride in their eyes.
Ethan's speech was polished, his smile a mask as he unveiled his work—a photorealistic portrait, its lines suspiciously perfect. Amber's heart raced, her resolve steeling. During a break, she approached the Linden Gallery owner, Ms. Carter, her voice steady. "Check Ethan's sources," she said, showing the traced sketch from his portfolio, its origins clear in a side-by-side comparison. "He's not what he seems."
Ms. Carter's eyes narrowed, her expression shifting from curiosity to dismay. She spread the word quietly, and Ethan's reputation crumbled, his face paling as whispers rippled through the crowd. Amber's heart pounded, guilt mingling with satisfaction—she'd done it, but at what cost?
Priya found her later, her camera in hand, a photo of Amber's triptych glowing under the lights. "You're not Lena," Priya said, her voice firm. "This was justice, not revenge."
Amber nodded, her guilt easing, but Ethan's cold stare as he left chilled her, a note tucked in her program: Vengeance has a price. Lena attended, alone, her art absent, her face a mix of regret and resentment. Amber ignored her, focusing on Charles's proud smile, his hand in hers, but Lena's shadow lingered, a question unanswered.