Chapter 2

2.

The annual gala for the Black Group was held at the Grand Hyatt.

I wore a dark navy silk dress that his secretary had sent over.

Lucien told me, "Wear this, it suits you."

I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time.

Dark navy was Sienna's favorite color.

But my feelings didn't matter anymore.

The gala was crowded with guests, and I stood by Lucien's side, smiling and nodding.

A client named Mr. Miller walked over with a glass of champagne.

He looked me up and down.

"Mr. Black, this must be Ms. Sienna. I've heard so much about you. You're even more beautiful than your photos."

The air went dead for a second.

Lucien's hand froze as he held his glass.

"No."

His voice was flat, like he was correcting a trivial fact.

Mr. Miller's smile hardened on his face.

"Oh... I'm so sorry. Then this is..."

"My wife."

Mr. Miller awkwardly raised his glass and made an excuse to leave.

I stood there, my palms sweating.

A secretary nearby whispered to her colleague, "No wonder he got them confused. They look so much alike."

The other one replied, "What's the point of looking like her? She's just a copy."

I heard every word.

I turned to look at them, and they immediately shut up, pretending to check their phones.

After the gala, Lucien's driver, Joe, came over to me.

"Ma'am, Mr. Black asked me to ask you about the old paintings in your family's storage room."

"What paintings?"

"The ones you painted before. The movers say they are taking up too much space and want to throw them out."

When I got married, I brought a dozen paintings I had created during my four years at art school.

My professors said I was talented, and my piece "River at 4 AM" had even won a state award.

Lucien put them in storage and said, "These are too depressing for our house. I'll buy you some better ones soon."

They had stayed in that dark room for three years.

"I'll go take a look," I said.

The storage room was on the second basement level, smelling of dust and mold.

My paintings were leaning against the corner, covered in thick layers of dust.

"River at 4 AM" was at the very back.

I pulled it out, but the canvas was damp, and the colors had bled into a blurry mess of blue and gray.

It looked like the sky at four in the morning―almost light, but not quite.

A sketchbook was tucked into the side of the frame.

I flipped to the first page, and a yellowed ticket stub fell out.

It was from the city's third annual youth art exhibition six years ago.

I stared at the ticket, unable to remember who gave it to me.

There had been so many people at that gallery.

I had stood in the corner, watching the crowd.

A young man in a white shirt had stood in front of my painting for a long time.

He asked me, "Why did you paint the river at 4 AM?"

I told him, "Because at that hour, the world isn't awake yet."

He smiled and bought the painting on the spot.

I never even learned his name.