The Accidental Marriage: Chapter 35

Who would’ve thought a blowjob could be so potent?

My whole body buzzes. There was something extremely powerful and charged about controlling Ares’s pleasure with my mouth. The raw taste of him was shockingly exciting. And the low groans he emitted, the praises he heaped on me and the erotic cajoling…

Was it really cajoling, though, if he was giving me license to do what I wanted to do anyway? Hmm…

I admire my husband for acting like nothing’s happened, although it’s been only a few moments since he was shuddering in my mouth. My knees, on the other hand, shake. If he didn’t have his arm to support me, I’d probably look drunk.

Eventually, my legs grow steadier. But I still pretend I can’t walk on my own. I like having Ares’s heat enveloping me. And he smells good. Why shouldn’t I enjoy my husband’s presence?

There aren’t any more of Mom’s paintings. We only have one more section to check, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain her works won’t be there. The auction house grouped the pieces by artist and then by theme. Still, can’t hurt to check, just in case.

Right as Ares and I are about to enter the nook, we bump into Lucie and her husband. He’s tall—tall enough that she can wear heels and not tower over him. A handsome man with dark hair and square jaw, he’s laughing at something Lucie just said.

“Hey, Lareina!” Lucie says with a big grin. “Awesome to run into you.”

“Yes! Hello!” We hug and exchange air kisses.

“This is my husband, Sebastian Lasker. Seb, this is my friend, Lareina Huxley.”

“Ah. The lady who managed to get Ares to commit.” He smiles. “It’s late, but congrats on the wedding. And hey, nice earring and necklace set.” He winks, and we all laugh.

“Yeah. My husband got them from a great jeweler.” I wink back. “So, did you find anything you like here? I think you said you were going to buy something?”

“Yeah, that piece.” She gestures at the section Ares and I haven’t been to yet. “It’s called Passion Series Number Three, and is just so intense. I love it. There are six pieces in the series, and Barron Sterling already bought the first two. I’m determined to get the rest.”

“Good luck.” I mean it sincerely, although I’m not sure it can be done. Barron Sterling is an old billionaire with too much free time and more money than God could spend. The rumor is he’s so influential he has the Pope on speed dial, and he’s not even Catholic.

Since Lucie spoke so highly of it, Ares and I decide to check out the painting. Lucie and Seb follow us in case I have questions about the piece.

Ares lowers his head so he can speak quietly into my ear. “You aren’t planning to bid on it, are you?”

“Nope. Even if I like it, I won’t. She called dibs first. Besides, I already have my sights set on My Love on the Beach.”

The section only has four paintings, but I stop abruptly as soon as we enter, my breath caught in my throat. My temples begin to throb.

The first one is titled Orange Dream. A giant orange fireball is set against a green and blue background with black streaks running through it like bolts of obsidian lightning.

The second one is Maze: a boy and a girl are running through black and orange walls and traps.

The third is The Wonder—an empty Wonder Bread bag left on a rock in the mountains. The grass around it is charred, like from a campfire. Next to me, Ares inhales sharply, flexing his hand against my side. Does he like that one? It’s the only one in the set with an ordinary, everyday scene. But somehow it fits with the previous two.

The final one, Passion Series Number Three, is layered with dozens of different shades of red, but if you look closely, you can see shapes beneath each coat.

“Wow. Just…wow.” My brain is doing its best to process what I just saw and failing rather badly. Emotions are surging, but I can’t even decide what they are. I feel like an empty canvas that’s having buckets of paint dumped on it.

Ares is giving me a look, sensing that something is off. “What’s wrong?”

I look at the description for each work. Everything’s by… “Parker Jacoby? Are they kidding?” That talentless, brainless, shameless tart?

“You know her?” Ares says.

“Oh, I know her. Do you?”

He shakes his head.

Lucie steps forward. “She’s an up-and-coming artist,” she says helpfully. “Getting famous now. Catherine Fairchild—Barron Sterling’s art curator—recognized her talent and bought the first couple of her works, which made her a rising star. Catherine has a rep for discovering diamonds in the rough. She was the first to sponsor and promote François before he became François.”

“I see…” The more I learn, the angrier I become. Now I understand the reason Doris was so eager to have me sign the agreement. These paintings are my “trash.” The ones I created to release my emotions and “reinterpret” my nightmares per the therapists she hired. Parker is a front—she’s young and pretty enough. The public will love her.

But I’m sure most of the proceeds from the sale of the paintings I created never went directly to Parker. At best, it was a fifty-fifty split. Given how greedy Doris and Rupert are, Parker probably got much less, but she wouldn’t object too much, since impersonating an artist is still better than getting an honest job.

Besides, who could resist the lure of fame and adulation without putting in any effort?

“How much were her works sold for?” I ask.

Lucie looks at her husband. “The last one fetched two million, I think? Is that right? It made a stir in the art world. Yuna was upset because she wanted it, but didn’t want to bid quite that high. She collects because she likes art, but she also wants them for investment value.”

“Two million dollars, just for a single painting,” I murmur. “Not bad.” I’ve created so many pieces. Sketches. Thrown them haphazardly in a storage closet because I didn’t care that much about them. After all, the art experts who saw my work said I wasn’t talented. But who paid for their assessments? Doris—with my money.

If she could get me to transfer them all to her, legally, she could be wealthy, even without my trust fund.

She’s obviously decided that will be easier than trying to force me to hand over the sixty billion or force me to marry Rupert now that I already have a husband. After all, she can’t hope to win a legal fight for my money against the likes of Huxley & Webber or Highsmith, Dickson and Associates.

Doris, Doris, Doris. You stole my mom’s work and now mine. No way you stopped there. How much have you stolen from me?

“Are you all right?” Ares asks. Lucie and Seb are also looking at me with concern.

“Like my paintings?” comes a soft taunt.

Lucie and Seb start. Ares’s head swivels and he stiffens, wrapping his arm even more protectively around me. I turn and face Parker, who’s standing there with a shit-eating smile. Her arm is looped around Rupert, who’s doing his best not to glare at me—he’s greedier than his stepmom, and probably bitter he won’t be getting the sixty billion he somehow feels he deserves.

Parker looks pretty good. She’s had some professional help. Her dark brown hair is artfully curled, and she’s in a sparkling black dress that shows off her surgically enhanced cleavage and long legs. Filler has done wonders for her normally thin lips, and the makeup kicks her appearance up another notch or two. Her hazel eyes look down at me as she tilts her chin arrogantly. She’s practically daring me to say something. You can’t prove anything.

“Passion is nice, although poorly titled,” I say. Let’s see how deep she can dig her own grave. I’d bet my ovaries that she has no clue of the secret behind the paintings she dubbed the Passion Series.

She twirls her hair around a finger. Rupert scoffs. “Too bad for you that she’s the artist.”

“Watch your tone, Fage. You’re speaking to my wife.” Ares’s voice is cold enough to insta-freeze blood.

Parker clears her throat. “Have you met Catherine Fairchild?”

A brunette who was looking the other way turns to us. She’s so gorgeous that she almost doesn’t look real. Her face is perfectly symmetrical, and every feature on her is delicate. But what could be a porcelain-like fragility is counterbalanced by the cool steel in her eyes that says she’s nobody’s doll. The black cocktail dress is flattering—a potato sack would be flattering on this woman—but also businesslike. Apparently Ms. Fairchild isn’t the type to mess around.

With Catherine facing us, Parker is barely noticeable. It’s an unusual situation; Parker generally likes to stay away from women who make her seem like a deformed squid by comparison. Ah, the things people do for money and fame. Bet she has lots of admirers.

“How do you do? I’m Lareina Hayworth Huxley.” I smile and extend a hand.

“Catherine Fairchild.” Her handshake is firm, her greeting warm. The smile that she gives me has enough wattage to light up half of Orange County.

“What’s your take on Passion Series Number Three?” I ask with genuine curiosity. After years of gaslighting and lies, I want an unbiased, professional opinion.

“I love the intensity of pain the colors represent. Although Parker named the six-piece set Passion, so much pain and rage just pour off the canvases, it’s like you’re under a waterfall of unadulterated emotion from the artist. It gives me the shivers to look at any of the pieces.”

“I see.” I fling a cool smile at Parker. “What would you do if you knew somebody stole them from the real artist?”

Catherine looks at me with bemusement. “That simply isn’t possible. The body of work she’s accumulated over the years shows growth and progression as she matured as an artist. I even saw some of the oldest sketches from when she was a child.”

“How would one prove she didn’t do them?” Lucie says diplomatically. Her eyes dart at me with concern.

Ares also senses the tension and shifts to stand half a step in front of me like a shield.

“As I said, impossible. Besides, I expect Parker to produce even greater works in the future,” Catherine says.

Parker pales a little, but she doesn’t back down, not with Rupert’s arm around her. She nods. “Of course. You can look forward to it.”

Shameless bitch. “Catherine, I hate to tell you this when we’ve just met, but you’ve been deceived. Parker didn’t create any of these paintings. I did.” My voice comes out so calm, it surprises even me.

Parker laughs incredulously, while Rupert glares at me like he’d love nothing more than to rip me into pieces right now. Ares, Lucie and Seb stare at me in shock, then Ares tightens his arm around me in a show of quiet support. Catherine scrutinizes me, her gaze serious. “If this is some sort of joke—”

“No joke,” I say. “It’s true.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I’m not drawing something just to prove myself. I shouldn’t have to do that!” Parker says swiftly.

I almost roll my eyes at her outburst. “That’s ridiculous. Who has time for that? I can prove it with the Passion Series you’re so proud of.”

Uncertainty and doubt cast shadows over her face before she quickly shakes them off. “How?”

“Catherine clearly knows her field, because it’s correct that every piece in the Passion Series is full of pain and rage. They’re my pain and rage at the treatment I’ve suffered.”

Ares squeezes my hand, his expression stony. He obviously recalls what I shared during dinner at his parents’ house.

Parker laughs. “Oh my God, that doesn’t prove anything.”

“Parker’s right,” Catherine says quietly.

“Doesn’t prove anything yet. But every painting in the series has a little secret, something only the creator would know.” I glance at Parker, then step closer to the canvas. “Do you know what it is?”

She scoffs. “Stop making stuff up. You were always jealous of me, and it’s ridiculous you’re taking it so far as to claim these paintings are yours!” Her voice goes almost shrill toward the end.

Catherine frowns. She probably doesn’t want to believe she’s been supporting an imposter. A couple of onlookers have gathered, shooting skeptical glances at me.

I didn’t expect people to believe me blindly, but it’s a little disappointing that they aren’t even open to listening to the truth.

“My wife is not a liar.”

Ares’s firm declaration surprises me. I look at him in shock.

“I’ll personally vouch for her,” he adds, and warmth swirls in my heart.

The disappointment from just moments ago dissipates. With him on my side, the situation doesn’t seem so daunting. Besides, who cares if the others don’t believe me now? I can always prove I’m the true artist later.

“I believe her, too,” Lucie says. “She has no reason to lie.”

Sebastian looks at his wife, then coolly settles his eyes on Parker. I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that look.

My heart grows impossibly light as I realize I actually have a team behind me. My confidence soars. So this is how it feels to belong.

Catherine looks at Ares, Lucie and Seb for a while, clearly conflicted, then turns to me. “Okay. If you believe there’s a way to authenticate the true creator, why don’t you email it to me? I’ll check it out.”

“No need for email.” I pull out a small pen from my clutch and jot down the painting’s secret on my palm, then show it to her. She furrows her brow. “Is this true?”

I nod. “Do you think I’d lie about something that could be disproven so easily?”

“I don’t know you. But…no. It would be a particularly stupid move.” She turns to Parker. “Do you have anything to say?”

Parker’s smile is stiff, but she doesn’t lose her composure. “There’s no secret, Catherine. How your heart resonates is what matters. My paintings are all about how you feel when you look at them. If you’re happy, then that’s what the work is about. If it makes you sad, then that’s the theme. I don’t have any formal art training. I just rely on instinct and emotion. Viewers should let go of any preconceived notions and enjoy the work the way it’s presented, rather than trying to imbue it with a meaning that isn’t there. Blue curtains in a story don’t mean the character is depressed or the author was subtly commenting on her mood. The curtains are just blue, and how you feel is what’s important.”

“Okay.” Catherine nods.

“I believe my girlfriend. I’ve seen her working on these with my own eyes,” Rupert adds.

Catherine shoots him a brief glance, then texts something on her phone for a minute. We spend the next half-hour discussing art before an out-of-breath hotel staff member shows up with a flashlight. “Here you are, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Thank you.” She takes it and raises her voice. “Everyone, please stay calm. We’re going to turn off the lights for a few minutes.”

The hotel shuts off the lights in our section of the ballroom. I move closer to Ares in the sudden darkness.

Catherine clicks on the flashlight. Black light is cast over the canvas, sections of it glowing a bright bluish color, stains shaped like splatters and forming a V.

Ares inhales, and Parker lets out a sharp cry. Rupert curses. The light in Catherine’s hand trembles. Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it, then gasps.

“Do you believe me now?” I ask.

“Oh my God. Turn the lights back on.”

I blink a few times as bright light floods the exhibition hall again. Catherine’s complexion is chalky, except for the bright red of her cheeks.

Parker points at me, her finger trembling. “You threw some kind of fluid on it behind people’s backs, didn’t you? Why else would you tell Catherine to test it with black light? You’ve always hated me, but defacing my work like this is too much! I’ll sue!”

“This isn’t the only one that glowed in the dark.” Catherine’s voice is terribly cold. “I had my assistant at Barron’s gallery check. Passion Series Number One and Number Two also glowed. Trust me, since the works have joined Barron Sterling’s collection, nobody’s had an opportunity to touch them or alter them in any way.”

The color drains from Parker’s face. “Fuck,” Rupert mutters.

Ares looks at me curiously. He’s probably wondering the exact nature of the secret.

“You have lied to me, stolen from the real artist and defrauded Barron Sterling,” Catherine says. “Artworks worth millions.”

“Catherine, no! Don’t you trust me?”

“Trust? How when you’ve lied and refused to admit to it? If you were the true artist, the black-light reveal would have been the first thing you told me.”

“Art theft is a federal crime,” Ares says helpfully. “Along with transporting stolen artwork and defrauding the public. And unfortunately for you, the statute of limitations hasn’t run out. Enjoy your time in the federal penitentiary.”

I nod with satisfaction. That doesn’t seem like a terrible outcome for the duo, especially since I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get them for being part of the conspiracy to poison me.

“It wasn’t me! I didn’t want to do it!” Parker shrieks, then points at Rupert. “It’s him and his stepmom and dad! They said nobody would notice, and we’d all get rich! It’s just trash.” She gestures wildly at my paintings. “I just picked them up and sold them. Like garage sale! It’s no different.”

A bitter mixture of victory, sadness and contempt drips through me. It’s such karmic justice, albeit ugly. Parker is going to drag everyone down with her. Keeping her mouth shut has never been a strong point.

“You stupid bitch!” A loud smack of flesh hitting flesh cracks the room.

Parker cradles her cheek and stares at Rupert in disbelief. Everyone else does too, except me. I know he’s always had a problem controlling his temper—it’s part of his entitled personality. Everyone should do what he says or else suffer the consequences. He gets away with it in Nesovia, using my money as a shield. But here in America? He picked the wrong stage for his outburst.

Less than two minutes later, hotel security shows up along with a couple of uniformed police officers. Parker points at Rupert. “He hit me! Arrest him for assault!”

Ares leans forward. “Battery,” he says, sotto voce.

Catherine speaks in a low voice with one of the officers. He nods, and they grab Parker and Rupert and cuff them.

“Why are you arresting me?” Rupert says. “I didn’t do anything! She’s the one who stole from my cousin. I had no idea the paintings weren’t—”

“I thought you saw her paint them.” I tilt my chin at the painting hanging in front of us.

He turns red and shoots me a murderous gaze. I stick my tongue out. The gesture is immature, but I’ve always wanted to do it to him. Just to see if maybe a vein will pop. One throbs visibly on his forehead, but unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to burst.

“By the way, officers,” I call out with a sweet smile. “Don’t forget to nab Doris and Vernon Fage. They’re deeply involved in the whole scheme.”

“You have no proof!” Rupert shouts.

“Sure I do. They tried to get me to sign a transfer agreement involving my artwork.” I turn to the police. “If you need more information, you can always contact my lawyer, Ethan Beckman, at Highsmith, Dickson and Associates. He has a copy of the agreement and a lot of information to share with you.”