Chapter 8 Vivianne The Unveiling
EIGHT
Vivianne: The Unveiling
The Rolls-Royce glides to a stop before the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
My pulse drums against my ribs, a staccato rhythm matching the flashes of cameras outside.
I take a deep breath, smoothing down my designer dress—a crimson sheath that hugs every curve.
The silk whispers against my skin, cool and sleek.
The first exhibit of the Swan Collection is causing quite a stir in the art world, and tonight's unveiling of the remaining pieces draws the elite of society.
And since the elite are gathering, my father faces the onerous task of attending as well.
After weeks of being imprisoned in our mansion following my abrupt return from Paris, this is my first public appearance.
The tight leash my father keeps me on has only grown shorter.
"Remember." Father's voice cuts like ice. "You're here to represent the Faulks name. Nothing more."
If only my mother were here. In my imagination, she would stand beside me, her hand warm in mine, telling Father to ease up, to let me breathe. But she's been gone since I was barely old enough to remember her face—just fragments of warmth and the scent of jasmine.
Grandmother tried to fill that void, raised me with as much love as she could offer, but she never once stood up to him. Never once told her son he was wrong. I'll never understand why.
I nod, swallowing the sigh that threatens to escape. This public appearance feels both thrilling and terrifying. The air in the car is thick with Father's cologne, a scent that once meant safety but now feels suffocating.
We step out into a barrage of light and noise. The camera flashes blind me. Father's hand on my elbow is both support and restraint as he guides me through the throng of reporters. The night air carries a hint of autumn, crisp and full of promise.
"Miss Faulks! Mr. Faulks! Any comments on the Swan Collection?"
Father's grip tightens—a silent command to say nothing. We sweep past without comment, the cool air of the gallery a balm after the stuffy car ride.
Inside, the air thrums with excitement. The elite of society mingle, their chatter a constant hum beneath the staccato of my heels on polished marble. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the gathering, their light dancing off jewels and designer gowns.
As we move through the crowd, a hush falls. Conversations pause, heads turn. Father's presence commands respect, and the sea of people parts before us. The weight of their stares presses in—some admiring, some envious, all curious.
"Mr. Faulks." A portly man in an ill-fitting suit approaches, hand outstretched. "What an honor to have you here tonight."
"Harrison." Father nods curtly, barely acknowledging the man's presence. "I trust the gallery is prepared for tonight's event?"
"Of course, sir. Everything is in order. We've spared no expense." Harrison nods eagerly, sweat beading on his brow.
"See that it remains that way." Father's lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
We move on, leaving Harrison stammering behind us. This is Father's world—a place where his word is law, where a single nod or frown can make or break careers.
"Vivianne.” Dr. Phillips hurries toward us, tie askew and face flushed. "I'm so glad you could make it. This is going to be quite the reveal."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world. Though I must admit, I'm nervous. The first piece was... breathtaking." I return his smile, willing the butterflies in my stomach to settle. "I've been dying to ask about the other paintings. What can I expect?"
Father's eyes narrow at my words. I was present at the unveiling of the first painting weeks ago, and the memory still quickens my pulse. The exquisite detailing, the play of light on skin—Paul captured every nuance of that night at the chalet.
"Oh, my dear, they're simply exquisite. You can't believe the talent of the Star—" He catches himself, eyes widening. "The artist. It's truly remarkable work." A chuckle, though there's a twinkle in his eye.
"What were you going to say, Dr. Phillips?" My father leans in.
"Nothing, nothing. Just an old man's ramblings." Dr. Phillips waves a hand dismissively, but a hint of nervousness threads through the gesture. "But trust me, these paintings... they'll take your breath away. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get ready for the reveal."
As we move further into the gallery, the excitement is palpable. Collectors, critics, and socialites press close, vying for the best view. I scan the room, hoping for a glimpse of Paul, but he's nowhere to be seen. Does he know I'm here? Does he know what happened after I returned from Paris?
Prescott approaches, his gait as predatory as ever. He's not an unattractive man, with his golden hair and chiseled features, but his eyes—those eyes are as dark as his black soul, and they send a chill down my spine.
He immediately lays his hands on me. His touch is possessive, his smile cold.
"Vivianne, darling, there you are. You look ravishing tonight."
He's dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that screams of wealth, but it's a new wealth, not the old money of the Faulks family.
His gaze rakes over me, lingering on the curves accentuated by my dress. I suppress a shudder, forcing a smile. "Thank you, Prescott. I didn't know you'd be here tonight."
"And miss the debut of my future wife's... discovery?" The sound that passes for his laugh is hollow and cold. "I wouldn't dream of it."
His voice drops to a whisper, meant for my ears alone. "Enjoy your little games while you can, Viv. Once we're married, you'll have more... pressing duties to attend to."
My mother would have stopped this. She would have fought for me, protected me from being sold off like livestock to secure Father's business deals.
But she's been dead for over twenty years, and Grandmother—sweet, gentle Grandmother Brigitte, who raised me after Mother died—she never challenged Father either.
Not once.
She'd just smooth my hair and tell me it would all work out, that my father knew best. But he doesn't know best. He only knows control.
The threat in his words is clear, and heat floods my cheeks—anger and something darker.
Before I can respond, a group of art critics approaches. Their eyes light up as they recognize me.
"Miss Faulks." An older woman with a severe bun grasps my hand. "Your work on uncovering the forgery of The Lovers was brilliant. Simply brilliant."
"We're all so excited to see where your career takes you.
" Another chimes in. "The art world needs fresh eyes like yours, especially when it comes to identifying forgeries.
Although we're told your discovery of fresh new artistic talent is unparalleled.
We're excited to view this new artist's work. "
I smile, even as my stomach sinks. If only they knew. If only Father would allow...
"Thank you. I'm honored by your kind words. This artist's work is..." I grasp the air as if seeking words. "It's simply phenomenal."
Prescott's grip on my arm tightens painfully. "Yes, Vivianne has quite the eye. It's one of the many reasons I chose her. Though I'm sure her talents will be put to better use once we're married."
Chose. As if I were a prized racehorse or a piece of art myself. Bile rises in my throat.
Would my mother have let him speak about me this way? I don't remember if, like my grandmother, she caved to my father's will, but I believe she would have stood up for me, reminded him that I have a brilliant career ahead of me, that my work matters.
I'll never know if she would've fought for me.
All I have are scattered memories—her laughter, the way she sang to me at bedtime.
Grandmother loved me—I know she did—but she never fought for me.
She never told her son that he was wrong to control every aspect of my life, wrong to arrange this marriage, wrong to treat me like property.
I used to ask her why she wouldn't stand up to him, but she'd look away, her eyes sad and distant. She's been gone for years, and I'm entirely alone.
The critics exchange glances, clearly uncomfortable with Prescott's possessive tone.
"Vivianne, might I have a word?" Dr. Phillips appears at my side, a welcome interruption.
I seize the opportunity to escape his grasp.
"If you'll excuse me." I flash an apologetic smile.
I follow Dr. Phillips to a quieter corner of the gallery. The sounds of the crowd fade to a dull murmur.
"Dr. Phillips, please, tell me more about these paintings. You can't leave me in suspense." My voice is low and urgent.
He hesitates, glancing around as if to ensure we're not overheard.
"My dear, they are more perfect than the first. As a collection, they will rock the foundations of the art world.
Beyond that, you have to understand that these paintings are unlike anything I've ever seen.
They're something else entirely. Original, breathtaking, and.
.." He pauses, meeting my eyes. "Intimate. "
I know. I was there.
"How intimate?"
"Nothing to be nervous about, my dear. It's just another exhibition. Shall we?"
A bell chimes, signaling the start of the unveiling. The crowd hushes, anticipation thick in the air. I make my way back to Father and Prescott, my pulse racing.
Dr. Phillips takes his place at the front of the room, the covered paintings looming behind him. The air feels charged, electric. The scent of excitement mingles with expensive perfumes and the earthier smell of canvas.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to present to you a collection that will, I believe, redefine contemporary art. I give you... The Swan."
With a flourish, he pulls back the curtain covering the first painting. Gasps ripple through the crowd. I lean forward, eager to see the piece I'm already familiar with—and then I freeze.