The gallery remained eerily quiet as Alyssa's departure left a trail of tension behind her.
I could feel the gazes of the attendees shifting between the portraits and me, their silence speaking louder than any applause or critique ever could.
I exhaled slowly, my fingers tightening around the remote still in my hand. It wasn't triumph that filled me—it was a strange blend of relief and exhaustion.
I had taken a stand, yes, but the weight of the confrontation lingered like the thick aroma of paint and varnish that filled the gallery.
Julian, ever the silent puppeteer of chaos, sauntered over to me with that signature smirk of his. He carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone who had just pulled off an elaborate prank and couldn't wait to revel in the aftermath.
"Not bad, sis," he drawled, slipping his hands into his tailored blazer pockets. "I was going to stay out of it, but you were doing so well, I just had to... add a little flair."
