Chapter 4

In the massive exhibition hall of Army Terminal, my booth C-47 felt like an island forgotten at the end of the world. Around me were the polished displays of successful artists, while I had only a worn white table and a few makeshift display panels.

'This is my last chance.' I looked at my newly installed work "Fractured Truth"—the culmination of my three-year "Fragmented Memory" series. To exhibit this piece that contained years of my artistic evolution, I had spent my last $3,000 on exhibition fees, transportation, and this month's rent. If this failed, I would truly have nothing left.

Over the past two days, only a few scattered visitors had passed by, glancing at the price tag before walking away. The $15,000 price was cheap by art fair standards, but for a "plagiarist," it still seemed too expensive.

"Excuse me, is this your work?"

I turned to see a man in his sixties, wearing an elegant wool coat, his gaze sharp and focused. His English carried a distinct German accent.

"Yes, I'm Luna Moreno." I tried to make my voice sound confident.

"Heinrich Muller." He extended his hand. "This piece has power. Your technique with the broken mirrors reflecting light is unique. Each angle presents a different image—very clever metaphor."

My heart raced. Heinrich Muller—I knew that name. He was one of Europe's most influential contemporary art collectors.

"Thank you!" I almost jumped. "It represents the reconstruction of truth after it's been distorted. When people observe the same thing from different angles..."

"They see completely different stories." Heinrich nodded. "I understand. This theme is timely, very relevant to reality."

He walked around the installation, stopping occasionally to observe how light changed on the mirror surfaces. "I've seen your other works online. Some people say you plagiarize, but I don't think so."

My throat tightened. "You believe me?"

"I've been collecting art for thirty years, Miss Moreno. I can tell authentic vision from imitation." He stopped in front of me. "I'm interested in your entire series. Perhaps we could discuss the possibility of a European tour?"

I could hardly believe my ears. European tour? That meant international recognition, a real art career, freedom from all this.

"I... of course! I would be honored to work with you."

Heinrich continued, "If you agree, we could start in Berlin, then Paris, Milan..."

Was this really happening? In my darkest moment, was there finally a ray of hope?

"Luna! I didn't expect you to still be creating. So admirable."

I turned to see Scarlett Wilson in a Chanel suit, holding a glass of red wine, her lips curved in that fake smile I'd grown too familiar with.

"Scarlett." My voice was steadier than expected. "What are you doing here?"

"Supporting art, of course." She nodded politely to Heinrich. "You must be Mr. Muller? I've heard of you. I'm Scarlett Wilson, heir to Wilson Gallery."

Heinrich nodded politely.

"I was just discussing collaboration with Luna," he said.

Scarlett's expression instantly turned dangerous. "Collaboration? Oh, do you know about Luna's recent... difficulties? The plagiarism allegations and such?"

"We've already discussed it," Heinrich replied curtly.

I saw a flash of annoyance cross Scarlett's face, quickly masked by her perfect smile. "Of course, of course. I won't disturb you then."

She began to turn away but suddenly stopped, as if remembering something. "Oh, Luna, I just saw Felix in the VIP area over there. He's been looking for you."

"I don't want to see him," I said directly.

"Don't be like that. You two have three years of... friendship after all." Scarlett's tone carried a malice I couldn't understand. "Maybe you could start over."

She stepped closer, now only two feet from my installation. I noticed her wine glass tilted precariously, the deep red liquid nearly spilling over the rim.

"Scarlett, watch your wine," I warned.

"Oh?" She looked down at her glass, then looked up at me with a smile. "You're right, I should..."

Her high heel suddenly slipped forward, her body losing balance as she pitched forward. The wine glass flew from her hand, deep red liquid splashing like blood toward my "Fractured Truth."

"Oh no!" Scarlett screamed. "My heel... Luna, I'm so sorry!"

I watched helplessly as red wine soaked the white canvas and seeped into the crevices of the mirror installation. Years of artistic evolution, my final gamble, destroyed in seconds.

"My God! The installation is ruined!" Heinrich stepped back in shock.

I knelt before the installation, my fingers trembling as I touched the wine-stained canvas.

"Luna, I'm really sorry!" Scarlett's voice sounded panicked, but when I looked up at her eyes, I saw only cold satisfaction. "It was really an accident!"

A crowd began to gather. People were taking photos, whispering. I heard comments like "damn amateur artist" and "how careless."

"What happened?" Felix's voice came from the crowd. He pushed through, but when he saw the situation, the first person he rushed to wasn't me—it was Scarlett.

"Baby, are you hurt?" He supported Scarlett's arm. "This kind of accident is terrible."

"I'm so scared, Felix." Scarlett leaned into his embrace. "Maybe I need to go to the hospital for a check-up... I think I sprained my ankle."

I remained kneeling, watching their performance. Felix didn't even glance at me.

"Miss Moreno," Heinrich's voice was heavy with regret. "This is deeply unfortunate. Such public incidents make collaboration... extremely complicated from a business perspective." He paused, studying my face. "A great artist needs not only talent but the ability to protect their work. I'm disappointed to witness this."

"No, please!" I stood up. "This was sabotage, not carelessness. I can prove—"

"Perhaps," Heinrich said carefully, "once you've resolved your current troubles, we can reassess the situation. But right now..." He shook his head and walked away.

My last hope disappeared with him into the crowd.

Security and cleaning staff arrived at the scene. I watched my work being cleared away like garbage, my heart as empty as a black hole.

"Luna, an accident is an accident. You can't blame Scarlett," Felix finally spoke to me, but his tone was cold as a stranger's.

"An accident?" I looked directly into his eyes. "You really believe this was an accident?"

"Of course," he put his arm around Scarlett's waist. "You can't possibly think Scarlett did this on purpose. That would be absurd."

Scarlett sobbed softly in his arms, her acting disgustingly perfect.

The crowd gradually dispersed, the exhibition hall lights seeming particularly harsh. I began collecting the wreckage, each broken mirror fragment like a knife to my heart.