Ella
The moment Luciano took the microphone, I knew this was no longer just about art.
It never really had been.
From where I stood on the stage, the lights felt hotter, harsher, like they were trying to burn something out of me. The applause that had followed Luciano’s introduction faded too quickly, replaced by an uneasy silence that pressed against my ears. I could feel hundreds—no, thousands—of eyes on me, dissecting every breath, every flicker of emotion, waiting for me to falter.
I didn’t.
I lifted my chin slightly, my gaze steady, even as Luciano’s words sharpened into accusations aimed squarely at Luca—and by extension, at me.
“Is this really about art,” Luciano demanded, voice rising, “or are you just trying to hurt me by favoring Ella over my protégé, Paige?”
There it was.
