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Chapter 8

Everyone turned to follow Liliana's gaze. In the corner sat a poised middle-aged man with silver-streaked hair and the quiet authority of someone who'd spent a lifetime surrounded by priceless art. "Oh, right! Mr. Adams is here," Chloe said with a laugh. "Who better to verify it?" That man was none other than Henry Adams, the curator of the Metropolitan Art Museum, and without question the most qualified person in the room to authenticate a painting. "If you won't take my word for it, let's hear what the expert has to say," Marsha offered with a pleasant sigh, glancing Liliana's way. She was certain the painting was a fake—after all, she'd made sure Liliana bought it. Volunteering Henry Adams herself gave her the upper hand, making her appear magnanimous while painting Liliana as defensive and petty. Liliana didn't flinch. She simply nodded politely. "Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Adams." "No trouble at all," Henry replied with a small nod before making his way toward the artwork under the gaze of a now-silent room. Marsha and Chloe exchanged a confident look. They were already savoring the fallout. The rest of the guests were practically holding their breath, eager for the drama to unfold. As Henry carefully examined the painting, Marsha couldn't contain herself. "It's a replica, isn't it, Mr. Adams?" she asked, a little too eagerly. Henry glanced at her calmly, then turned back to the room. "It's authentic." The entire room froze. Marsha's face paled. "What? That can't be right…" "Are you sure?" she pressed. "Maybe take another look?" A wave of murmurs swept through the crowd. Henry Adams was a world-renowned expert. The odds of him making a mistake were slim to none. Liliana tilted her head slightly, her tone mild. "What made you so sure it was fake, Marsha?" Now all eyes were on Marsha and Chloe, the earlier excitement giving way to skeptical whispers. "I always thought Marsha was elegant and generous," someone murmured. "Shouldn't she be happy her sister gave such a thoughtful gift?" "Doesn't really look like sisterly love to me," another said. "Feels more like rivalry." "You think they're close? Please, they're just putting on a show." "And Marsha's supposed to be some kind of art expert, right? Yet she called it fake immediately? Either she's clueless… or she was trying to humiliate Liliana on purpose." "Maybe both." Marsha could hear her reputation unraveling in real time. Her ears burned, but she couldn't afford to lose composure. Forcing a tight smile, she said, "I suppose I've been out of the art world too long. My instincts aren't what they used to be. I apologize for causing a scene." It was a careful retreat—blaming "rusty skills" and calling it "a scene" to minimize the damage. Liliana watched her sister with cool admiration. Classic Marsha—twisting words, spinning the narrative. No wonder it had taken her so long to see through the act in her last life. "Liliana, I'm truly sorry you had to go through that," Marsha said sweetly. " I owe you an apology." Her voice was soft, composed—the perfect picture of grace. To the untrained eye, she looked like a noblewoman making amends. Liliana gave an inward scoff but kept her expression serene. Fine. If Marsha wanted to put on a show, she'd play her part. "I'm sure you didn't mean to embarrass me," she said with a polite smile, lingering ever so slightly on the word "mean." "We're family, after all. Just a little misunderstanding—no hard feelings." Marsha heard the barb loud and clear, but she had no choice but to match the tone. "Thank you for being so understanding, Liliana," she said through gritted teeth. "Oh, don't mention it." Liliana smiled sweetly. "Good thing Mr. Adams was here, or the misunderstanding might've gotten even worse. Maybe next time, sis, double-check your art knowledge. These little mix-ups can be... unfortunate." A few well-dressed guests nearby chuckled under their breath. No one believed Marsha's excuse about her "declining skills," and Liliana's passive-aggressive remark only drove the point home. Old Mr. Johnson gave a light laugh in an effort to smooth things over, and the crowd gradually began to drift away—but the whispers about Marsha's blunder lingered. She could hear them. Feel them. And each one stung. As Liliana laughed quietly with Wilson across the room, Marsha burned. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Ethan—still bruised from their last encounter—sitting alone, brooding. She gathered the hem of her gown and made her way over. "Still want revenge?" she asked, her voice low and smooth. Ethan looked up. Marsha was watching Liliana like a hawk, her eyes full of simmering hatred. That look—it was familiar. It made Ethan feel like he wasn't alone in his rage. His eyes followed hers, landing on Liliana. He'd hoped to win favor with Mr. Johnson today, but thanks to that woman, he'd shown up looking like a street brawler. All he could do was make an appearance and leave before the whispers started. "If she really ends up with Wilson, you're out of luck," Marsha murmured. "So why not do something about it now? Get her alone. Make your move. Once that happens, what choice does she have but to marry you?" And once she did, her reputation would be ruined. No more sympathy. No more doting parents. Just shame. Ethan's lips curled slightly. "You have a plan?" If he'd known she looked this good underneath all that countryside plainness, he wouldn't have waited so long. Marsha smiled. "This is the Johnson estate. Around here, there's nothing I can't pull off." She leaned in, whispering something in his ear. Moments later, the two had reached a silent agreement. Five minutes later. Marsha returned to the party with two glasses of wine in hand, her expression warm and polished. "Liliana," she said gently, "I still feel terrible about earlier. Let me make it up to you with a drink?" No one offers something for nothing. Liliana raised an eyebrow slightly, then smiled with polite suspicion. "Didn't you already apologize?" "I did," Marsha said earnestly. "But I still feel awful. Just one drink—it would really mean a lot." Liliana's smile didn't falter. "I'm not great with alcohol. Wilson usually doesn't let me drink." Damn it. She's gotten smarter—and she's hiding behind Wilson now? Marsha's smile froze for a breath. Just then, a well-dressed woman nearby chimed in helpfully, "Miss Liliana, your sister's being so sweet. Maybe just a sip? Otherwise she'll feel guilty all night."

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