Chapter 312

The news came and went without making much of a splash.

In the Russell Group executive suite.

James stared at the report in his hands, his expression dark.

The channel he'd been using to handle certain "dirty work" had been torn out by the roots. Clean, efficient, no trace left connecting it to him—yet unmistakably severing one of his arms.

His opponent hadn't even bothered using it to attack him publicly. Just cleared it away like an afterthought.

It was a silent warning.

And absolute contempt.

"Mr. Russell," Owen knocked and entered, his voice trembling. "Ark Gallery... it's started."

James said nothing. He simply stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside, half the city spread before him.

He knew the exhibition would go on as planned. If they'd dared to strike, they'd already prepared everything.

He just hadn't expected their counterattack to come this fast, or hit this hard.

...

Ark Gallery.

Today, the space had been arranged with stark simplicity.

No flowers, no red carpet, no blaring music.

On the central wall hung the exhibition's title: To My Love.

Mr. Smith stood at the entrance, personally greeting each guest. He wore a well-fitted suit today, his expression solemn.

The turnout was significant.

Silver-haired titans of the art world, wealthy collectors, professors from major art schools, and a swarm of media who'd caught wind of the event.

And some particularly notable figures.

"Dr. Clark, you came." Mr. Smith spotted Ethan and hurried over.

"Thought I'd take a look." Ethan smiled warmly, his gaze drifting toward the gallery interior.

Today he wasn't here as a doctor. Just an ordinary friend.

Inside the gallery, silence.

Every person stood transfixed by the paintings on the walls.

The works were arranged chronologically.

The first: a lopsided sun, paint applied in thick, naive strokes, radiating childlike innocence. In the lower right corner, an equally crooked signature: Q. Beside it, a notation: Artist, age 5.

The second: a woman's profile, seated by a window mending clothes, sunset light caught in her hair. The brushwork still clumsy, but already revealing startling talent. Artist, age 7.

The third, the fourth...

One after another, like flipping through a silent storybook.

Only one subject appeared: that gentle woman. Her back, her profile, the curve of her smile, her working hands.

This was a daughter recording, through paint, everything about her mother.

From age five to seventeen.

The style evolved, the technique matured, but the emotion in each painting remained constant.

Love so thick it couldn't dissolve, flowing quietly through the canvas, striking everyone present straight in the heart.

An older female reporter found herself removing her glasses to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"How... how could this possibly be plagiarism..." she murmured. "This is clearly one person's evolution, someone painting with her life."

Nearby, a prominent art critic stared fixedly at one particular painting—the woman standing in a flower garden, glancing back with a gentle smile, a yellow daisy tucked in her hair.

The composition bore a seventy-percent resemblance to David's "My Mom."

But everyone could see which was the source, and which was the crude imitation.

This painting was signed: Artist, age 13.

"So... the original behind 'Warm Sun' was here all along." The critic's voice carried amazement. "No wonder River was so furious. This was like digging up her foundation."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"So the Russell family's kid was the plagiarist?"

"More than plagiarism. Look at these paintings—this entire series is one person's complete creative journey. The Russell family took one piece, slapped a 'genius' label on it... that's theft. Robbery."

"Disgusting... how dare the Russell Group do this?"

"What now? The Russell Group issued a statement calling River a slanderer."

Mr. Smith listened to the surrounding chatter, the weight in his chest finally lifting.

He knew. River had won.

No need for elaborate arguments. These paintings were the most powerful evidence imaginable.

Just then, the light at the gallery entrance dimmed.

The murmuring voices vanished instantly.

Everyone instinctively turned.

In the doorway stood a tall man. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, his posture straight, his presence commanding.

His arrival made the air in the entire gallery feel heavy.

Ethan's expression changed.

Mr. Smith's heart leaped into his throat.

James.

He'd actually come himself.

James's appearance was like a stone dropped into a still lake.

No assistant behind him, no bodyguards, just him alone. Yet the oppressive aura of someone long accustomed to power felt heavier than an army.

All eyes fixed on him—curiosity, wariness, and undisguised contempt.

Reporters' hands moved toward their cameras, but no one dared press the shutter.

Mr. Smith's face darkened. He stepped forward instinctively, blocking the path into the exhibition space. Like an old lion protecting its young, his entire body radiated defensiveness.

Ethan frowned as well, moving quietly to Mr. Smith's side, his gaze steady on James.

James's eyes didn't linger on a single painting on the walls.

As if these works that could shake the entire art world were nothing more than worthless scribbles to him.

He walked straight toward Mr. Smith.

"Mr. Smith." His voice betrayed no emotion.

"Mr. Russell. Your arrival is... unexpected." Mr. Smith's tone was stiff, not bothering to fake courtesy.

James paid no attention to his attitude. He glanced around the exhibition space, his gaze finally settling on the To My Love inscription.

"Nice exhibition." He spoke as if evaluating a subordinate's project. "Very attention-grabbing."

Several suppressed gasps came from the surrounding crowd.

This wasn't provocation anymore. This was insult.

Mr. Smith's hands trembled with anger. "Mr. Russell, if you're not here to view the art, please leave. You're not welcome here."

"No, I'm here to buy." James said it matter-of-factly.

He pulled a checkbook and pen from his inside pocket, his posture relaxed. "Name your price, Mr. Smith. All the paintings here—I'll take them all."

The entire gallery fell deathly silent.

Everyone stood stunned speechless by his move.

Buy them?

What was he trying to do?

Purchase every piece of evidence that proved Sophia's innocence and nailed the Russell family's guilt, then hide them away—destroy them even—making everything that happened today an unprovable joke?

The idea was insane. And perfectly James.

A prominent collector couldn't help muttering, "Lunatic... what does he think art is?"

"He wants to bury the truth with money," a nearby reporter whispered, palms sweating.

Mr. Smith looked at the checkbook in James's hand and laughed bitterly. "Mr. Russell, do you really think these paintings can be measured in dollars?"

"Money can't measure things only because the price isn't high enough." James looked down, preparing to write. "One hundred million. Enough?"

A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

"If not, two hundred million." His tone remained flat, as if discussing the price of cabbage.

Ethan had finally seen enough.

"James." His voice was cold. "Put it away. This isn't your boardroom."

James paused. He looked up at Ethan, displeasure flickering in his eyes. "Ethan, this is between River and me. Are you really getting involved?"

"I'm just an ordinary visitor," Ethan said. "Who happens to be disgusted by someone trying to defile an artist's life's work with dirty money."

Their gazes locked, the atmosphere sharpening dangerously.

Then a cool voice came from behind them.

"Let him write it."

Everyone turned.

Sophia stood there—no one had noticed her arrival.

She still wore the paint-stained white shirt from her studio, her hair loosely pinned up, her face bare of makeup. Thin and clean. As if she'd just stepped out of her own world, where outside chaos didn't touch her.

Her presence seemed to draw all the light in the gallery toward her.

"Sophia." Ethan said her name softly, worry in his eyes.

Sophia gave him a reassuring smile, then stepped forward slowly until she stood before James.

Her gaze settled calmly on the checkbook in his hands.

"Two hundred million is too little," she said.

James looked at her.

The Sophia before him was someone he'd never seen. No humility, no pleading, no love, and no hatred either. Calm as deep water—impossible to read through, impossibly foreign.

That loss of control made him deeply uncomfortable.

"Then how much do you want?" His voice came out rough.

"What I want, you can't afford."

Sophia's gaze moved from the checkbook to the paintings behind him.

Her voice was soft, yet it carried clearly through the entire gallery.

"These paintings are not for sale."

"They're not merchandise. They're part of my life. From age five to seventeen, they're love letters I wrote to my mother."

"Mr. Russell, you might be able to buy the whole world. But you can't buy a daughter's love for her mother."

She paused, her gaze finally returning to James's face.

"And you can't buy what you destroyed—what I painted back from the ashes, stroke by stroke. My bones."

James's face turned ashen.

His hand gripping the checkbook went white at the knuckles.

"Bones." The word was a needle, piercing straight into the most hidden corner of his heart. He thought of her ruined hands. Of her kneeling on the floor, picking up shattered frame pieces one by one.

He'd thought he'd won.