She stormed up to me, pointing at the massive photo. “Giselle, I know you have an issue with me, but how could you destroy my exhibition?” Her voice was filled with hysteria, but in her blind anger, she forgot the simple truth. This exhibition had been mine from the start. It was my vision, my hard work, my sweat and tears.
Her words pierced through me, but I refused to back down. “Do you have any idea how much that photo means to me?” she continued, her voice trembling. “It was taken on my birthday… by Cohen!”
Through the dripping paint, I lifted my head to glance at the giant photograph; my thoughts clouded with a storm of emotions I couldn’t yet untangle.
The smile in the painting above gleamed brightly, a stark contrast to the fragile, pale boy I once knew.
“Cohen bought one of my paintings for ten million before. Consider it my compensation to you,” she said, her words ringing hollow.
I pulled my arm away from Cohen, his hand still outstretched to steady me. With a determined stagger, I made my way toward the exhibition’s storage room.