The Call Boy I Met in Paris – Episode 52
Stella’s gaze landed on the photograph, and the color in her face changed before she recovered. The reaction lasted less than a second, but Sophie had been watching for it. Justin had been right: Stella recognized the painting from the University of Paris exhibition. Whatever explanation she offered next would begin with a lie.
“I saw your submission for the Monet Prize,” Sophie said. “Did you really paint it?” She enlarged the image until Justin’s faded signature filled the screen, then turned the phone so Stella could no longer pretend the resemblance was accidental.
“Of course I did.” Stella folded her arms. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting that this canvas existed five years before your entry. Justin painted it in college and displayed it at his graduation exhibition. Your award-winning composition copies the figures, the perspective, and even the way the light falls across the center.” Sophie kept her voice controlled, hoping anger would make Stella careless. “You changed details, but you did not create it.”
Stella glanced toward the neighboring tables. No one appeared to be listening, yet she lowered her voice. “You married a call boy and now you expect people to believe he is some forgotten artistic genius? That is desperate, even for you.”
“You are still lying.” Sophie placed the phone between them. “But I know the truth.”
A slow heaviness spread through her arms. She tried to pick up the phone again, but her fingers did not close properly around its edge. The café lights seemed too bright, each one surrounded by a widening haze. She blinked, waiting for her vision to clear.
Across the table, Stella stopped pretending to be offended. Satisfaction replaced outrage, and her eyes dropped to the half-finished drink. “Do you?”
Sophie understood too late. She pushed the glass away, spilling liquid across the table. “What did you put in that?”
“You always were dramatic.” Stella collected Sophie’s phone before it could fall and wiped the wet screen with a napkin. “You had a drink. If you cannot control yourself in public, that is hardly my fault.”
Sophie tried to stand, but the booth shifted beneath her. Her knees struck the underside of the table, sending cutlery clattering to the floor. A server looked over, and Stella immediately rose to steady her with the practiced concern of a devoted sister.
“She has had a difficult week,” Stella told the server. “I thought she was well enough to go out, but apparently not.”
“Call Justin,” Sophie managed. The words felt thick on her tongue. She reached for Stella’s wrist, yet her grip had no strength.
Stella bent close enough for only Sophie to hear. “He will see exactly what I want him to see.” She slipped the phone into Sophie’s bag after deleting the open image from the recent display. “And so will everyone else.”
Near the café entrance, a man raised his phone and captured Sophie sagging against the booth while Stella stepped carefully out of frame. Another camera flashed from the sidewalk. The trap had never been limited to silencing questions about the painting.
Sophie fought to remain conscious. Her location was still shared with Ted, but she could not remember whether the setting would update with her phone locked. The distance to the door seemed impossible, and every sound in the café stretched into an indistinct echo.
Stella placed cash beneath her untouched glass and adjusted her coat. “Got you,” she whispered, all traces of sisterly concern gone.
By the time Stella walked away, Sophie could no longer lift her head. The last thing she saw was the café door closing behind her sister while strangers continued filming.