People love a spectacle.
But the next day, his heart leapt back into his throat.
I was late. The room buzzed with whispers.
He wiped sweat from his brow; his fists clenched.
Only when I arrived—wearing the gown and holding the leash of a golden retriever—did he finally exhale.
But then his brows knit again, eyes fixed on my chest.
Why wasn’t I wearing that pin? He wanted to demand an answer, but with all eyes on us, he forced a sunny smile and reached for my hand.
Right then, the big screen lit up.
As the footage played, the crowd erupted.
Ethan turned to look—and went white.
I ignored him, walked onto the stage, and took the mic.
I scanned the guests. My voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.
“Many of you here are industry peers, so you know exactly what you’re looking at. These are the works—and the methods—of our celebrated artist.”
“Ethan has produced popular pieces, yes. But what’s behind them?”
I clicked open a folder: all his creation contracts, the behind-the-scenes paper trail.
Another file: ghost-artist contracts—hundreds of them.