The Call Boy I Met in Paris – Episode 61
Justin’s declaration left the reception hall unnaturally quiet. Guests who had spent the evening praising Stella’s originality now looked from the celebrated canvas to the man claiming ownership of its source. Several phones rose discreetly, their cameras recording the collapse of a triumph that had seemed unquestionable minutes earlier.
“That is ridiculous,” Stella said. Her laugh came too late and sounded too sharp. “You cannot walk into my celebration, point at my painting, and decide it belongs to you.”
“I am not deciding anything.” Justin faced the canvas with the calm of someone stating a documented fact. “I painted the original at university. You copied it.”
The accusation moved through the room in whispers. A member of the award committee approached the display, studying the brushwork as though visible evidence might suddenly appear beneath the frame. Stella’s fingers tightened around her clutch.
“Where is this supposed original?” she demanded. “Sophie shows up with a photograph, and now her husband tells a dramatic story. That proves nothing.”
“The original is secure,” Justin replied. “So are the exhibition catalog, dated photographs, and the testimony of faculty members who saw it five years ago. You should consider how many lies you want recorded tonight.”
Sophie watched Stella calculate. Denial had always worked when the person challenging her lacked power, but Justin spoke as if every missing record were already in his hands. For once, Stella could not tell whether intimidation would protect her or deepen the trap.
“This is Sophie’s revenge because she lost,” Stella said, turning to the guests. “She placed third and cannot accept that I am more talented.”
“You drugged my wife after she questioned you about the painting,” Justin said. His voice remained even, but the restraint beneath it was unmistakable. “I know you arranged the café photographs, and I will not stop until she has justice.”
The mention of the drugging changed the crowd’s curiosity into alarm. Stella glanced toward the exits, then recovered with an offended expression. “You have no right to accuse me of a crime.”
“Especially not if it connects to her mother?” Justin asked.
Sophie felt the words like a hand at her back. He was not promising revenge for wounded pride. He was telling Stella that the old death she considered buried would be examined with the same determination as the stolen painting.
“Do you understand?” Justin asked.
Stella did not answer. The committee chair requested a private meeting and announced that the award’s status would be reviewed until questions of authorship were resolved. Applause did not return.
The reception coordinator hurried onto the stage and invited everyone to enjoy the remaining program. Conversations resumed in fractured clusters, but no one looked at Stella with uncomplicated admiration anymore.
Justin offered Sophie his hand. She accepted it, aware of Stella staring after them with hatred stripped of every social disguise.
They left the circle of guests together. Behind them, critics gathered near the painting, asking questions Stella could no longer silence with a smile.
In the corridor outside the hall, Sophie stopped. “Justin, what exactly did you say to her?”