Chapter 69
Sophia's POV
The moment I'd been dreading all week had finally arrived.
After dinner, the lights dimmed and the auction area was illuminated with soft spotlights. The guests moved from their dinner tables toward the rows of chairs facing the small stage where I would soon be standing.
This is it. No more preparation time. No more excuses.
I watched from my seat as the foundation director took the stage to introduce the evening's program. Her voice seemed to come from very far away as she talked about the important work of helping young people recover from addiction.
"Tonight's auction features some truly exceptional pieces, and we're honored to have Mrs. Isabella Romano provide expert commentary on these works of art."
Expert commentary. If only they knew.
The applause was polite but enthusiastic. I could feel eyes turning toward me, people trying to get a better look at the newest Mrs. Romano. Vito reached over and squeezed my hand.
"You're going to be perfect," he whispered.
I hope you still think that in an hour.
The first few auction items were handled by the professional auctioneer, pieces that didn't need special commentary. I watched the bidding process, trying to calm my nerves by focusing on the mechanics of how it all worked.
Okay. I can do this. Just stick to the script.
Then I heard my name called.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Mrs. Isabella Romano to tell us about our next featured piece."
Time to go.
I stood up on shaking legs, smoothed down my dress, and walked toward the stage. The spotlight felt blindingly bright as I stepped up to the microphone. Looking out at the audience, I could see hundreds of faces watching me expectantly.
Don't look at Maria. Don't look for Maria.
But I couldn't help myself. I found her sitting in the third row, wearing that white dress, watching me with intense blue eyes. She looked like she was waiting for something.
Focus. You've got this.
I took a deep breath and looked at the easel beside me, where the first piece I would discuss was displayed. It was a contemporary painting, bold strokes of color that reminded me of the piece Maria had shown me earlier.
"Good evening, everyone. I'm delighted to be here supporting such an important cause." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "The piece you see here is a stunning example of contemporary expressionist work."
So far so good. Keep going.
I talked about the emotional impact of the colors, the energy in the brushstrokes, the way the piece made me feel rather than technical details about the artist's technique. The audience seemed engaged, nodding along with my observations.
This isn't so hard. I can do this.
The bidding for that piece went well, selling for more than the estimated price. I felt a surge of confidence as I moved on to the second piece.
"This beautiful watercolor captures the serenity of a summer morning. Notice how the artist uses light and shadow to create depth and movement."
Again, I focused on emotional responses and general observations. Again, the bidding was successful. I was starting to think I might actually survive this.
Maybe Maria was wrong about being able to trap me. Maybe I'm better at this than I thought.
The third piece was where everything went wrong.
It was a sculpture, a bronze figure of a dancer in mid-leap. Beautiful and graceful, with flowing lines that suggested movement and freedom. I'd prepared notes about it, focusing on the way it captured motion in a static medium.
"This exquisite bronze sculpture demonstrates the artist's mastery of form and movement," I began, following my script. "The way the figure seems to defy gravity speaks to the power of art to transcend physical limitations."
I was feeling confident, getting into a rhythm. The audience was listening attentively, and several people had already raised their hands to indicate interest in bidding.
"The patina on the bronze gives it a warm, golden quality that enhances the sense of life and energy in the piece."
That was good. Mrs. Henderson mentioned patina. I'm doing fine.
But then, just as I was transitioning into my closing remarks about the piece, Maria stood up.
"Mrs. Romano, if I may?" Her voice carried clearly through the room, and everyone turned to look at her. "I'm curious about your thoughts on the specific artistic tradition this piece represents."
What? That wasn't part of the plan. Audience members aren't supposed to ask questions during the presentation.
But Maria continued, smiling sweetly as if this was perfectly normal. "I'd love to hear your unique insights on the sculpture's creative background and artistic value. Specifically, how would you categorize this within the broader context of modern figurative sculpture?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. I stared at her, my mind suddenly completely blank.
Creative background? Artistic tradition? Modern figurative sculpture?
I knew nothing about any of those things. My prepared notes had covered emotional impact and basic observations, not art history or sculptural traditions.
Say something. Anything.
"Well, that's... that's an excellent question," I managed, buying myself time while my brain frantically searched for an answer that wouldn't come.
The silence stretched on. I could feel the audience waiting, expectant. Some people were starting to shift in their seats.
Think. What did Mrs. Henderson say about sculpture? Did she say anything about sculpture?
But my mind was completely empty. All the facts I'd tried to memorize, all the basic art history I'd crammed into my head over the past week, had simply vanished.
"The artistic tradition..." I started, then stopped. I had no idea how to finish that sentence.
This is it. This is how it all ends.
I looked out at the audience and saw confusion starting to appear on faces. People were beginning to whisper to each other, wondering why Mrs. Romano, who supposedly had an art degree from Juilliard, couldn't answer a basic question about artistic traditions.
Maria was still standing, still smiling, but I could see the satisfaction in her eyes. She knew she had me. She'd found the perfect question, the exact gap in my knowledge that would expose me as a fraud.
"I... the sculptural tradition is..." I tried again, but the words wouldn't come.
I can't do this. I can't fake my way through this.
The whispering in the audience was getting louder. I saw some people pulling out their phones, probably to text their friends about the awkward moment when Mrs. Romano failed to demonstrate basic art knowledge.
Vito. Oh God, Vito is watching this.
I found his face in the crowd, saw the confusion and concern in his eyes. He couldn't understand why his wife, who supposedly had studied art for years, was standing on stage unable to answer a simple question.
I'm ruining everything. His reputation, the family name, everything.
Maria was still waiting for my answer, still wearing that innocent expression that fooled everyone except me. She'd planned this perfectly. Found the exact moment when I would be most vulnerable, most exposed.
"Perhaps you need a moment to collect your thoughts?" Maria suggested helpfully, her voice carrying just the right note of concern.
A moment won't help. I don't know the answer. I'll never know the answer.
The silence in the room was becoming unbearable. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me, could practically hear the social media posts being composed in real time.
Mrs. Romano freezes on stage. Unable to discuss basic art history. What kind of art expert can't answer simple questions?
I opened my mouth to try again, but nothing came out. My throat felt completely closed, my mind utterly blank.
This is how my deception ends. Not with some dramatic revelation, but with me standing on stage like an idiot, unable to answer a basic question about art.
The auctioneer started to move toward the microphone, probably planning to step in and save me from further embarrassment. But that would almost be worse. Having to be rescued because I couldn't perform the most basic function of an art expert.
I have to say something. Anything is better than just standing here.
But as I looked out at the expectant faces, at Maria's satisfied expression, at Vito's growing confusion, I realized I had reached the end of my ability to pretend.
I can't do this anymore.
The weight of the lie, the impossibility of maintaining this deception any longer, crashed down on me all at once. I was Sophia Cohen, medical student, not Isabella Cohen, art expert. And everyone in this room was about to find that out.
I'm sorry, Vito. I'm so sorry.
The silence stretched on, becoming more uncomfortable with each passing second. People were definitely talking now, wondering what was wrong with Mrs. Romano, why she couldn't answer such a simple question.
Say something. Even if it's wrong, say something.
But I couldn't. I just stood there, frozen.