The Real Daughter Returns

During the drive, Vivian kept looking at the trending stories on her tablet.

“BREAKING: Mysterious art-world sensation Pearl returns from abroad. Her first exhibition opens today, and the artist will finally reveal her identity. Tickets are nearly impossible to get!”

The comments were full of praise and anticipation.

“She’s finally going to show her face! I can’t wait!”

“I heard she’s been in poor health and resting overseas. She painted Moonlight while she was ill. An actual genius.”

“A little inside information: she isn’t just talented. She’s gorgeous and comes from a seriously wealthy family. Confirmed. They’ll all be there today. You’ll see. She’s practically the heroine of a romance novel.”

Vivian read the gushing comments without saying a word.

But on her face was a tenderness I had never seen directed at me.

The shape of the truth began to emerge.

My heart sank, colder and colder.

I followed the Whitmores into the gallery hosting the exhibition.

It was already packed.

There were visitors who had managed to get tickets, and reporters from several outlets, all desperate for a photograph of the elusive artist.

I looked at the paintings displayed around me.

Anger and despair filled my chest with nowhere to go.

Every one was mine.

They weren’t just the result of my labor. They were pieces of me.

The orphanage had been dark and painful. After I came to the Whitmores, every day had been spent walking on eggshells.

I buried everything I felt and tried desperately to please my adoptive parents.

At one point, the strain had pushed me into depression.

I didn’t dare tell them that either. I was afraid they would despise me. Throw me out.

Those hours I spent painting alone had been how I healed.

With my brushes, I let out the fear and the feelings I couldn’t speak. I comforted the lonely little girl inside me.

Somehow, I had saved myself.

Every painting here was proof of what I had survived.

How dare they take those too?

“Look! It’s Pearl! She’s here!”

Someone cried out.

The lights dimmed.

A spotlight illuminated the entrance on the second floor.

A slender woman appeared beneath it, wearing a silk cheongsam painted with a landscape design. A jade hairpin held up her hair, with one loose strand falling to her smooth, delicate shoulder.

Her features were exquisitely pretty.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Pearl.”

She smiled beneath the light.

Her gaze settled in my direction. Or, more precisely, on the Whitmores beside me.

Her smile grew sweeter.

“Pearl Whitmore. Richard and Vivian Whitmore’s younger daughter.”

Beside me, Vivian’s eyes filled with tears. She blew her daughter a kiss.

What a loving mother and daughter.

I stared at them, rage burning so fiercely I felt it should have shown in my eyes.

Vivian had planned this carefully.

She had used my talent to make Pearl Whitmore an art-world darling.

How dare she?

Then something snapped into place.

There was only one reason she would dare deceive everyone like this. Only one reason she would let her daughter hold an exhibition under my identity without fearing what I would do when I returned.

She knew I wasn’t coming back.

Ever.

I turned toward her carefully made-up, benevolent face in disbelief.

Horror crept through me.

Julian wasn’t the only one involved in my death.

Vivian was part of it too.

People around us were already talking.

“Wait. I thought the Whitmores only had one daughter. The adopted one, Stella. Where did Pearl Whitmore come from?”