The Psychotic Girl’s Revenge

“Any problem with that? You’re judging the art, not the person, right?” Paige lazily replied, standing behind her artwork and stealing a glance in Enrico’s direction.

He shouldn’t recognize her like this, Paige thought to herself, but she still cast her eyes down.

The host was momentarily stumped by her retort, then chuckled, “Well then, it seems Miss TwinkleToes isn’t too keen on facing the public with her true appearance.”

‘Yeah, right. Clearly just too ugly and fat to show her face.’ Molly wanted to retort but restrained herself.

The host turned to Molly, “Miss Clarke, can you tell us the inspiration behind your artwork?”

When asked, Molly immediately spoke confidently and eloquently, “My painting aims to portray the current state of today’s youth. Some say we’re a lost generation, but I want to prove that we’re like sunflowers, growing towards the sun, resilient and capable of rising from the ashes, even if we’re scorched by the flames.”

Her voice was sweet and pleasing to the ears.

As she finished, applause erupted from the audience.

Molly watched Enrico closely, disappointed to see that he didn’t join in the applause.

“That’s a very positive message indeed. Well said,” the host nodded approvingly, then turned to Paige, “Miss TwinkleToes, what about you? What was your inspiration behind this artwork?”

“To win an award,” Paige replied bluntly.

The host was completely caught off guard. This was a disastrous moment in his hosting career.

Silence filled the room once again.

Molly stood aside, listening, unable to hold back a scoff.

After a while, the host finally regained his composure. He didn’t want to ask any more questions himself, so he turned to the artist judges for help. “Judges, do you have an answer now?”

“It’s really difficult to judge. One painting is vibrant and lively, the other embodies the style of master Chris,” the judges were still undecided.

“Your painting indeed reflects the style of master Chris. Do you have any relation to her?” one judge asked.

“She is my mentor,” Paige replied calmly, without any hint of concealment.

“What?” The judges were astonished. “Where is master Chris now? Can we please meet her?”

“She is in a very distant place and prefers not to be disturbed by the world,” Paige replied indifferently. As a painter who had lost her hands, she had her own pride and didn’t want to face the public again.

Upon hearing this, everyone fell silent.

Master Chris had always been so independent; if she didn’t want to come out, there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Seeing everyone’s attention focused on this overweight woman, Malik began to worry for his daughter and called out, “Molly, you should come down. She followed master Chris’s style. How can your crude work compare?”

Upon hearing this, Molly smiled faintly in agreement. “Yes, how can I compare myself to master Chris’s apprentice? After all, the Obsidian Award is based on master Chris’s style.”

Clearly, she was suggesting that Paige won the prize based on her background and imitation.

Paige stood on the stage and glanced at her with disdain. “Miss Clarke can create such works, yet knows nothing about painting.”

“What do you mean?” Molly began to feign grievance again. “I may not come from a prestigious family of artisans, but does that mean master Chris’s apprentice can look down on others like this?”

In normal circumstances, Molly’s tactic often worked, but facing giants in the art world, no one was buying it this time.

“This lady’s painting indeed carries master Chris’s style, but it is not mere imitation. Master Chris excels in landscapes, whereas her painting, aside from its delicate brushwork, touches the soul. It has its own spirit,” a judge remarked to Molly. “Miss Clarke seems to lack an understanding of painting. You can’t even see this.”

Upon hearing this, Molly felt deeply embarrassed and trapped, unsure how to respond.

Paige stood defiantly on the stage. “Master Chris imparted her painting skills to me, and I’m grateful for that. But when I bring my painting to a competition, it’s because I have the real talent to win.”

She glanced at Molly with disdain. “Miss Clarke, I suggest you refrain from speaking on matters you don’t understand. The more you talk, the more you embarrass yourself.”

“You… I… “Molly couldn’t even say a word to refute, feeling extremely angry.

The judges below were all art enthusiasts, completely absorbed in the paintings.

One judge stood up and asked, “I’d like to ask TwinkleToes a question. Is your painting a depiction of oppression?”

Paige responded calmly from the stage, “That depends on what you see.”

Molly thought to herself, ‘Such arrogance. How can she challenge the judges like this? And they’re actually tolerating it?’

The judge, undeterred, humbly continued, “What I see is a young maiden, blood splattered on the snow, covering her body. Only stains of blood remain, eventually to be covered up. Is that correct?”

“It could be,” Paige replied, her tone softened toward the sincere inquiry.

“How so?” The judge eagerly stood up, wanting to hear more.

Paige stood silently on the stage, not responding.

Several judges and guests stood up, approaching the stage to examine the oil painting, clearly intrigued yet puzzled by its meaning.

“Freedom,” a deep, hoarse voice suddenly rang out.

The venue fell silent as everyone turned from the painting to see Enrico, sitting upright with a stoic expression on his face.

“Death is the oppression of the body, the freedom of the soul.”

Having said this, he suddenly locked eyes with Paige, his gaze sharp. “TwinkleToes, am I understanding this correctly?”

Paige was stunned by his words. He understood, and he understood well.

The judges began to comprehend as well. “No wonder these splashes of red resemble both blood and flower petals. Blood is harsh, yet petals are beautiful. Freedom of the soul-how can that be a sad thing?”

“All things in the world depend on different perspectives and interpretations,” another judge remarked. “What may seem oppressive to those with easy lives may appear as freedom to those burdened in their hearts.”

The judges turned to Enrico, realizing that the influential figure of Country A had a deeper sensitivity than they had ever realized. They dared not speak.

Molly was bewildered. What was happening? How did they all turn to look at that fat woman’s painting without even asking her? If she had known that being cryptic could achieve such an effect, she would have done the same.

The judges quickly reached a unanimous decision, awarding “First Snow Maiden” with all votes. Molly’s face turned pale; she had invested so much effort, only to be overshadowed by this overweight woman.

“Miss Clarke, I would like to offer two million for your ‘Flaming Sunflower,’ to inspire my son to strive. Would you be willing to part with it?” Suddenly, a wealthy attendee spoke up.

Molly smiled modestly and nodded. “Your appreciation is truly an honor.”

“That’s wonderful! I personally love ‘Flaming Sunflower’ as well,” the host boasted to Molly.

Then another socialite inquired, “I’d like to purchase ‘First Snow Maiden’ for six million.”

Molly’s brief joy was cut short. Her painting fetched two million, while the fat woman’s soared threefold?

“Do you have any thoughts on this, Miss TwinkleToes?” the host turned to Paige.

Historically, Obsidian Award-winning works entered the market starting at three million, sometimes selling for over twenty million. Paige could wait a little longer, but trapped in Rose Estate, she couldn’t afford to wait for potential buyers. The prize money of three million plus this six million bid was a substantial income for her.

Paige was about to agree when someone below shouted, “I’ll raise it to eight million.”

The final turned into an auction on the spot.

Molly was grinding her teeth in resentment. ‘What was going on? Was the painting really that good?’

Paige’s masked eyebrows raised slightly. Someone had vision.

“It seems this gentleman is genuinely interested in the painting. I believe Miss TwinkleToes also feels the admiration from everyone,” the host smiled, then glanced at the first bidder, wondering if he would raise his bid.

The initial bidder, always keen on art, promptly raised it, “Ten million.”Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

‘Insane.’ Molly sneered inwardly.

“Fifteen million,” others clearly recognized the painting’s value and began bidding.

“Sixteen million,” more joined in.