Chapter 7

The charity auction was a glittering affair, filled with the city's elite. Chace played the part of the doting fiancé to perfection, lavishing Karyn with attention and expensive gifts. He bought her a diamond necklace, fastening it around her neck with a tender smile as cameras flashed.

The crowd murmured their approval. "They make such a perfect couple."

He glanced at me occasionally, a perfunctory check-in. "Are you having a good time? See anything you like?"

I just shook my head, my eyes scanning the room for one person: Keith Mosley. Or at least, the head of the Mosley family. According to my uncle, he was supposed to be here.

The lights in the ballroom dimmed, and the auctioneer took the stage. "And now, for our final, most anticipated item of the evening!"

A large screen behind him lit up. My breath caught in my throat.

It was a portrait of my mother.

But it wasn't right. It was a beautiful photo I recognized, one of her in her art studio, her face lit with passion. But someone had crudely photoshopped it. She was now posed provocatively, her clothes disheveled, a leering man' s arm wrapped around her.

"This piece," the auctioneer announced with a smirk, "is titled 'The Homewrecker's Legacy.' A fascinating study of a woman who clawed her way into a wealthy family, only to be cast out. A cautionary tale, wouldn't you say?"

The room filled with cruel laughter.

My entire body started to shake. I looked at Chace, my eyes begging him to do something, to stop this.

He was whispering in Karyn's ear. They both had small, knowing smiles on their faces. They knew. They had planned this.

This was their way of putting me in my place. By desecrating the memory of my mother.

"Stop it," I whispered, my voice a strangled rasp. I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor. "That's my mother! Stop it!"

Chace's face hardened. "Ember, sit down. You're making a scene."

"Did you know about this?" I screamed, my voice raw with pain and disbelief. "Did you do this?"

He sneered. "So what if I did? Your mother was what she was. Don't be so sensitive."

The bids for the painting started climbing, each number a fresh wave of agony. They were bidding on my mother's humiliation.

I turned to Chace, my last shred of hope clinging to a thread. "Please. Buy it for me. I'll pay you back. I'll do anything."

He looked at me, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of hesitation. But then Karyn placed a hand on his arm.

"Don't, Chace," she whispered. "Think about my family. We can't be associated with people like her."

His eyes turned to ice. "For Karyn," he said, his voice cold and final, "I would do anything."

He pried my fingers from his sleeve, his touch rough. "Your mother was a disgrace. Like mother, like daughter."

The pain was so immense, so absolute, it felt like my heart had stopped beating.

Just as the auctioneer was about to slam the gavel down on the final bid, a deep, authoritative voice cut through the room.

"This auction is over."

A man in a sharp suit walked onto the stage. I recognized him as the head of the auction house.

"This painting," he announced, his voice booming with authority, "is a fraudulent piece of slander. The photo has been doctored. We will be launching a full investigation, and the person responsible will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law."

A wave of relief so powerful it made my knees weak washed over me.

The man on stage looked directly at me, his expression a mixture of pity and something else I couldn't quite decipher.

Karyn looked panicked. She clutched Chace's arm. "Chace, do something!"

Chace, ever the protector of his precious Karyn, stood up. He pointed a finger at me. "It was her! She's the one who submitted the painting to try and slander the Warren family!"

He was throwing me to the wolves to save her.

"Get out," he hissed at me, his face contorted with rage. "I don't want to see you again. You're fired from my life."

He was dumping me. After four years, he was firing me.

I heard the auction house head sharply reprimand Karyn. I heard Chace's gentle voice comforting her.

I walked out of the ballroom, a ghost leaving the scene of her own execution.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from my father's family. "Your uncle has been arrested for submitting the fraudulent painting."

So they had thrown him under the bus.

Another message came through, this one from Keith Mosley's number.

"I am sorry for what happened to your mother's memory. I have taken care of your uncle. He will not bother you again."

I let out a bitter, humorless laugh.

My mother, a woman who only ever wanted to create beautiful things, was still being used as a pawn in the games of these horrible people. Even in death, they wouldn't let her rest.