Chapter 334
“Carmen never wanted to use your paintings in the competitions. But to prove yourself, you left the Wilson family to get attention. You might be clever and talented, both in your studies and in art, but your heart is rotten to the core. You’re jealous of your sister and want nothing more than to destroy her.”
A stunned silence fell over the crowd. They thought, ‘Could what Mr. Xaver said really be the truth?’
Percival’s version of events suddenly seemed surprisingly plausible.
Carmen’s solo exhibition featured exclusively traditional watercolor paintings. It was a fact that spoke volumes, especially considering she was taken as a protégé by Percival, a renowned master of traditional painting.
Most importantly, the Wilson family’s deafening silence spoke volumes.
The crowd wondered if their silence meant consent.
Bryan wanted to stand up for Aubree, but he knew full well the consequences of helping her.
One onlooker said, “Actually, I’ve always wanted to say this. When I first learned about Carmen, she made a name for herself with her watercolor paintings. So when she was later publicly shamed for plagiarism, I was truly baffled. Why would someone skilled in watercolor paintings be accused of plagiarizing vividly colored oil paintings?”
The situation now seemed almost one–sided.
A flicker of joy gleamed deep in Carmen’s eyes as heated debates erupted all around her. Everyone was now questioning if Aubree had set Carmen up. If that were the case, it would be terribly unfair to Carmen.
‘Exactly, that’s it!‘ Carmen exulted inwardly, barely containing her glee. ‘Serves her right! Aubree deserves to be scorned and condemned by everyone.
‘What right does Aubree, an orphan bastard from the orphanage, have to compete with me? Since she left the Wilson family, she should have died out there long ago. Why did she have to come back?
‘It’s bad enough that she came back. But why can’t she just know her place and stay under my thumb? Why must she fight back and steal my thunder? Aubree should just drop dead.
“Hold it!”
Before Aubree could say a word, a middle–aged man’s voice sharply cut in.
An onlooker exclaimed, “It’s Stan, the president of the Art Association!”
“It’s mine,” Aubree replied. “Mr. Frazier, I suppose you still have this painting. When you get back, take a sketching pencil and trace over the lower right corner on the back. You’ll find my signature there.”
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