The Psychotic Girl’s Revenge

Soon, bids came one after another, each intent on acquiring this year’s winning artwork. Two of the fiercest competitors were glaring daggers at each other, both determined to win.

Bids had reached twenty-two million. This figure was nearly the highest ever for a winning artwork in the history of the award.

Paige was contemplating what she could do with the money when a deep male voice suddenly resonated through the venue, “One hundred million.”

Instantly, the entire room fell silent. Everyone turned in astonishment.

The host was dumbfounded. “Mr. Gustin, are you… Are you offering one hundred million for this painting?”

Enrico lifted his gaze, his eyes darkening. “Are you questioning my ability to afford it?”

The host stammered, “No… no… of course not.”

Thereafter, no other tycoon dared to bid. One hundred million-a price unprecedented in the history of the Obsidian Award.

Paige was puzzled. Despite her confidence in her painting, she was just an unknown artist. Yet Enrico was offering one hundred million for her artwork?

Molly stood there, trembling with anger. ‘One hundred million. This fat woman’s painting for one hundred million. Were these people all insane? Was Enrico insane?’

After a while, the host turned to Paige cautiously. “Miss TwinkleToes, you prefer not to reveal your true identity, but next, procedures such as receiving awards and selling paintings require identity verification… what should we do?” His tone was careful.

“So, the verification for the Obsidian Award relies solely on identity information?” Paige lowered her voice skeptically. “What if someone buys the painting to claim the fame for themselves?”

“Huh?” The host was puzzled. “Who would want their painting attributed to someone else?”

“What if certain wealthy young ladies want a bit of fame?” Paige countered.

Molly’s heart skipped a beat upon hearing this. Did this fat woman know she bought the painting? She instinctively retorted, “Who are you talking about?”

“Miss Clarke, I’m not talking about you, so why are you so defensive?” Paige sneered.

Molly was livid.

“Well then, how about this? Miss TwinkleToes, why don’t you paint another piece right here, just a few strokes, and we’ll see if it matches your style? That could serve as verification,” suggested one of the judges who admired Paige. He believed artists often had quirky temperaments, and if it truly was her work, whether showing her face shouldn’t matter.

Other judges echoed their agreement.

Paige agreed readily. Turning to Molly, she said, “Why don’t you verify as well? That businessman paid two million for your painting, didn’t he?”

Molly frowned at her. “Why are you so against me?”

The businessman who bought the painting found Paige’s suggestion interesting and spoke up, “Miss Clarke, why don’t you also paint a few strokes? If the verification passes, I’m willing to add another million.”

But Molly couldn’t find a polite way to refuse and anxiously looked towards her father, Malik, who was getting up to leave.

Seeing this, Molly smiled faintly. “Alright, I’ll prove that.”

The staff brought out the painting supplies.

Paige didn’t bother removing her gloves and picked up a brush.

“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom first,” Molly hurriedly said, lifting her skirt and leaving.

Paige stood before the canvas, watching Molly’s retreating figure with a mocking smile. She deftly flicked her brush, dipped in paint, and began to paint.

Her movements were smooth, her strokes confident, without a hint of hesitation.

Enrico watched as delicate strokes of white emerged under her brush, his gaze growing darker.

The snow from the night his sister died seemed to be gradually recreated on the canvas. How did she manage this? Each stroke seemed to echo his memories, his heart!

…

Outside, Malik had already been waiting and pulled Molly into a corner.

“Dad, what should I do? I can’t paint an oil painting at all; I’m going to be exposed,” Molly said desperately, on the verge of tears. If she was exposed, not only would Enrico lose interest in her, but her reputation would be ruined.

“It absolutely can’t be exposed. There’s only one way out now,” Malik said, fully aware of the gravity of the situation. He grabbed her hand and pressed it against the nearby window sill, raising his hand to strike her wrist without mercy.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“Ah!” Molly screamed in agony, her voice echoing through the entire art museum.

Inside, Paige lifted her eyebrows slightly at the sound but continued to paint calmly.

The staff rushed out and found Molly lying on the ground, her face pale, her hand limp on the floor.

Malik crouched beside her anxiously. “Why are you so clumsy? Fall even just walking.”

He deliberately touched Molly’s hand, causing her to cry out in pain. “Ah, it hurts…”

She fell and hurt her hand? The staff exchanged looks, puzzled. She had just agreed to verify the painting and now… Was it really just a coincidence? But she didn’t seem like she was faking it.

“Maybe you should go to the hospital?” the staff asked cautiously.

“Since I’m here to participate, I’ll wait until the final of the competition is over,” Molly replied, her face pale.

Supported by the staff, she returned to the event venue.

Meanwhile, the judges had already verified Paige’s painting, and they were now at the final award ceremony.

The award presenter eagerly stepped onto the stage, ready to present the Obsidian Award, which now carried a value of one hundred million, making the presenter even more honored.

Before he could set foot on stage, however, a cold and assertive male voice interrupted, “I’ll be presenting this award.”

All eyes turned to Enrico once again.

Today was unusual-Enrico seemed particularly enamored with this piece.

Enrico was Enrico. Even if he openly prevented another presenter from taking the stage, no one dared to object.

The host was dumbfounded again until prompted urgently by the organizers through his earpiece. “Let’s welcome presenter Mr. Gustin to award the new winner of the Obsidian Award.”

The audience exchanged glances before erupting into applause.

Enrico rose from his seat, buttoning his suit jacket and striding confidently towards the stage. Paige couldn’t help but hold her breath.

His eyes remained fixed on her, as if seeing through her mask to her true face.

With a casual gesture, he beckoned, and a protocol lady carrying the trophy swiftly approached.

‘Let’s wrap up this award ceremony quickly.’ Paige felt uneasy being so close to him. She cleared her throat and took the trophy. “Thank you, Mr. Gustin.”

Enrico then moved his hand back a bit. Slowly lowering his head towards her, he stared directly at her, turning his face slightly, his lips almost touching her ear, his voice low and hoarse-

“Congratulations, you’ve thoroughly caught my attention.”

Paige felt a chill run down her spine.

Shouldn’t he be congratulating her on winning the award? Why was he congratulating her on catching his attention? She didn’t want his attention.

The next moment, Enrico acted as if nothing had happened, casually stuffing the trophy into her arms before turning and walking away.

Just like that? Without taking her with him? Paige grabbed the host’s arm, telling him, “I’m leaving first. The authorization and payment details are already left on your work desk outside. Remember to process the payment.”

“Huh? But you haven’t given your acceptance speech…”

Paige agilely ran out, too quick to say anything more.

This was truly the most unconventional event the host had ever hosted. The award presenter had nothing to say, and even the winner had nothing to say…

The large screen behind started playing the historical development of the Obsidian Award, a customary introduction. But just as it began, it abruptly switched to a surreptitiously recorded video.

The setting seemed to be inside a private RV. A man pulled out a painting and handed it to someone next to him-the painting was none other than the competing piece, “Flaming Sunflower,” and the man was the previous winner of the Obsidian Award.

The recipient of the painting handed over a card, smiling, “Don’t worry, Senator Clarke and Miss Clarke won’t shortchange you. You’ll be satisfied with this figure.”