Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 242

The composition was solid and composed, its palette leaning toward somber grays, yet rich with subtle layers. Every brushstroke was both delicate and sure.

In the painting, a man stood with his back to the viewer, framed by a towering window that stretched from floor to ceiling. Beyond the glass, the night was shrouded in haze, city lights shimmering indistinctly in the distance.

He was slightly hunched, one hand tucked in the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other holding something unseen. His profile radiated a heavy loneliness, as if his shoulders bore the weight of endless exhaustion and unspoken burdens.

A shaft of light fell in from the side, stretching his shadow across the floor, deepening the sense of solitude that clung to the scene.

In the lower right corner, clear as day, the signature “Nimbus” and a date were scrawled.

The year—over a decade ago.

“Wait… this—this was Nimbus’s work from high school?”

“From over ten years ago? She would barely have been a teenager! The technique, the emotion—this is unbelievable!”

“This isn’t just talent anymore. This is genius.”

“That figure… there’s a whole story in that silhouette. Just looking at it makes my chest ache.”

“It looks like an older man. He seems so steady, but also so alone… Could Nimbus have painted her father?”

The chat exploded with disbelief and awe:

— No way! High school? Her skill puts my entire art degree to shame!

— Nimbus, of course! That lighting! That atmosphere! I’ve got goosebumps.

— That back… it just looks so sad…

— It has to be her father! The way it captures that quiet, world-weary love—it's uncanny!

In the VIP section, Julian and Queenie both froze the instant the painting appeared.

Julian’s brow knit tight, his gaze riveted to the screen, heart skipping for reasons he couldn’t explain.

Queenie instinctively covered her mouth, a flicker of panic flashing in her eyes, as if she’d seen a ghost.

That silhouette.

That composition.

That feeling…

Why was it so hauntingly familiar?

It was as if a long-buried memory stirred, hidden beneath layers of dust—so close, yet she couldn’t quite reach it.

Before they could untangle their thoughts, the auctioneer’s voice sliced through the tension, snapping them back to the present.

“This deeply moving piece, ‘Shadow’s Trail,’ also starts at zero. Let’s begin the bidding!”

“Two million!” someone called out immediately, trying to seize the initiative.

“Three million!” another bidder jumped in.

“Three and a half!”

“Four million!”

The price climbed rapidly—clearly, everyone in the room recognized the painting’s worth, far above the previous two.

As the bidding stalled around four million, tension mounting in the room—

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