Chapter 3 – THE INVESTOR’S WIFE KNOWS THE TRUTH

I stared at the gallery phone in Miriam’s trembling hand.

Eleanor Vance. The wife of the Dubai investor. The woman whose fifty-million-dollar funding hinged on the lie Charles had constructed around Madison.

My fingers tightened around the silver charm bracelet I had just found on the floor. Charles had planted it here. He had stolen it from my jewelry box at the house and left it amidst the shredded canvases to frame me for the vandalism.

He was going to tell the police I had a mental breakdown and destroyed my own work.

“Take the call, Mom,” Sarah urged, her eyes wide.

I took a deep breath, setting the bracelet on the counter, and pressed the phone to my ear.

“This is Elizabeth Montgomery,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“Mrs. Montgomery,” Eleanor Vance’s voice was crisp, elegant, and entirely unreadable. “I understand there was an incident at the gallery last night.”

My heart sank. Charles must have already contacted her.

“There was,” I admitted carefully. “My remaining collection was vandalized.”

“Yes, Charles told me,” Eleanor said smoothly. “He called my husband an hour ago. He said you suffered a severe manic episode and destroyed the paintings because you were jealous of his marketing director, Madison Clarke.”

I closed my eyes. The sheer audacity of his lie was breathtaking.

“He told my husband that Madison is the true artist,” Eleanor continued, “and that you stole her portfolio to host this exhibition out of spite.”

“Mrs. Vance, that is a lie,” I said firmly, opening my eyes. “I painted every single stroke on those canvases. Charles is committing fraud to protect his investment.”

“I know,” Eleanor said.

The simple, two-word response stopped me cold.

“You know?” I echoed, stunned.

“I am an art collector, Elizabeth, not a fool,” Eleanor said, a hint of amusement warming her sharp tone. “I spent twenty minutes studying your brushwork last night. The layering technique you use on your oil landscapes takes decades to perfect. A twenty-four-year-old marketing executive who spends her time posting selfies in Dubai did not paint those.”

A wave of profound relief washed over me. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t invisible. Someone had actually seen me.

“But my husband doesn’t know about art,” Eleanor continued, her tone shifting to a serious, business-like edge. “He only knows numbers. And Charles Montgomery’s numbers look very good right now. If Charles insists Madison is the artist, my husband will back him to avoid a scandal.”

“So Charles wins,” I whispered, looking at the ruined canvas on the floor.

“Not necessarily,” Eleanor said. “I am currently staying at the Montgomery Grand Hotel here in Charleston. I want you to come to my penthouse suite at noon today. Alone.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Charles thinks he has erased your proof,” Eleanor replied. “But he forgot one crucial detail about the painting he gave Madison six months ago. The one she claims is hers.”

“What detail?”

“I’ll show you when you get here,” Eleanor said. “And Elizabeth? Bring your paints.”

The line went dead.

I handed the phone back to Miriam.

“What did she say?” Sarah asked, practically vibrating with anxious energy.

“She knows Charles is lying,” I said, a spark of hope finally igniting in my chest. “And she wants to meet me at noon.”

I looked at the silver charm bracelet on the counter. Charles had tried to frame me. He had tried to strip me of my dignity, my work, and my sanity.

I picked up the bracelet and dropped it into my purse.

“Sarah,” I said, turning to my daughter. “I need you to go back to my house.”

Sarah frowned. “Dad’s house? Why? He’ll be there.”

“He won’t be there,” I said confidently. “He’s managing the fallout of his lie. He’ll be at the corporate office with Madison.”

“What do you need me to get?”

I looked at the shredded canvases. The hours of my life, sliced to ribbons.

“Charles took a painting from my sunroom six months ago,” I said softly. “The one Madison posted on her social media yesterday. My first gift from my future husband.”

“Yeah,” Sarah nodded. “The woman at the window.”

“That painting didn’t just have an image on the front,” I said, my voice hardening. “It had a companion piece. A sketch. I always staple my preliminary charcoal sketches to the back of the wooden frames before I stretch the canvas.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “The original sketch is still attached to the back of the painting Madison has?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “But Charles doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know how art is made. And I guarantee Madison never bothered to look behind the canvas.”

“Where is it?” Sarah asked, grabbing her keys again.

“Madison didn’t take it to her apartment,” I said, remembering the background of the photograph Charles had sent me. “The wall behind her in that picture… it was the executive suite at Montgomery Hotels. She hung it in her office.”

Sarah grinned, a fierce, brilliant smile that looked exactly like mine used to.

“I still have my corporate keycard from my summer internship,” Sarah said. “I’ll get it.”

We parted ways outside the gallery. Sarah drove toward the towering glass skyscraper of Montgomery Hotels, and I took an Uber to the Montgomery Grand.

When I arrived at the penthouse suite at noon, Eleanor Vance opened the door herself. She was a striking woman in her sixties, radiating wealth and sharp intelligence.

“Elizabeth,” Eleanor smiled, stepping aside. “Come in.”

I walked into the lavish suite. But my attention was immediately drawn to the massive easel set up in the center of the living room. Resting on the easel was a blank, white canvas.

Next to it was a small wooden box.

“You told me to bring my paints,” I said, confused. “I didn’t have time to go back for them.”

“You didn’t need to,” Eleanor said, walking over to the box. She opened it.

Inside wasn’t a new set of paints.

It was the little wooden box I had packed in my suitcase last night. The one containing the first paintbrush I had ever owned.

“How do you have this?” I gasped, stepping forward.

Eleanor picked up the worn, wooden paintbrush.

“Because,” Eleanor said softly, “Charles brought it to me this morning. He sold it to me as proof that Madison had outgrown her old tools.”

She handed me the brush.

“Show me what Madison couldn’t possibly do, Elizabeth,” Eleanor commanded. “Paint.”

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