Ella
“Paige, get off the stage!”
The shout cut through the air like a blade, sharp and merciless. For a split second, it hung there alone—raw, unmistakable. Then, as if a fuse had been lit, the entire hall erupted.
“Get off the stage!”
“Get her out!”
“Paige! Get down!”
The chant grew louder, uglier, folding in on itself until it became a single, roaring demand. The sound pressed against my ears, vibrating through my bones. I stood frozen, watching as the tide of public fury finally found its next target.
If tonight had unfolded differently—if Luciano hadn’t imploded first—Paige’s forgery might have earned nothing more than a few smirks, some whispered gossip, maybe a polite dismissal cloaked in professionalism. The art world loved its scandals discreet, its sins hidden behind velvet
