I Became the Billionaire's Fake Lover to Get My Revenge
Chapter 43: Hidden Signature

Chapter 43: Hidden Signature

Anna took a deep breath, clenching her fists several times behind her back in an attempt to release some of the tension coiling inside her. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and she wasn’t accustomed to being the center of so much attention.

But when her gaze met William’s dark eyes, something warm spread through her chest, grounding her, giving her the confidence she so desperately needed. With him there, she could breathe.

"There’s something wrong with the bottom left corner of the painting," she finally said, pointing at the area in question. "If you look closely, you’ll notice that the blending technique is inconsistent. The rest of the painting clearly follows a uniform method, but this section... doesn’t."

She paused, briefly meeting Amelie’s gaze, half-expecting her to step in. But Amelie remained silent, her eyes fixed on Anna, urging her to continue. And so, she did.

"This artwork is painted with oil-based paints, but the bottom left corner shows clear signs of a different medium mixed in—wax. You can tell by the way the area doesn’t reflect light as the rest of the painting does. Artists usually stick to one method to maintain consistency, especially when replicating classical styles."

Amelie nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing as she leaned in for a closer look. "Now that you mention it, I do see the difference," she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. "So, what exactly are you suggesting, Ms. Dumas?"

"The spot looks fresh," Anna replied, her voice steady but firm. "I believe Mr. Pierce attempted to cover something up, but didn’t quite manage to get the right mix of paints."

A hushed gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a tense silence. Amelie, unfazed, turned her gaze back to Anna, her voice cool and probing. "Can you prove it?"

"Yes," Anna nodded, her voice calm. "I’ll just need a cotton swab and a glass of vinegar diluted with water."

"Kathy," Amelie called to one of her assistants, "please bring a cotton swab and the diluted vinegar."

"Yes, Mrs. Bennett," the woman responded with a bow before quickly leaving the stage.

A heavy silence settled over the auction hall, the air thick with anticipation. The guests were on edge, eager to see what would unfold. As soon as Amelie’s assistant returned with the requested items, Anna released a quiet breath and accepted them with steady hands.

She dipped the cotton swab into the glass, the liquid cool against her skin. Taking a moment to steady herself, Anna crouched before the easel and gently pressed the swab to the canvas. She dabbed carefully, her eyes tracking the paint as it began to dissolve under her touch. The process was slow but steady, the canvas yielding to her methodical approach.

When she finished, her heart skipped a beat—it worked.

"Here you go," Anna said, stepping aside to reveal the result of her work. "A hidden signature."

A fresh wave of astonished gasps rippled through the hall. Whispers spread, some guests now wondering if the artist had deceived them, passing off a stolen painting as his own. Others questioned whether finding a hidden signature even held any real significance.

Anna’s gaze shifted to Oscar, whose face had drained of color, his green eyes darting nervously toward Susanne, whose pallor matched his own.

Got you, Anna thought, fighting back the urge to let a victorious smile slip across her lips.

"Everyone, please, calm down," Amelie said, raising her hands to quiet the crowd. Her voice was firm as she tried to restore order. "There must be a reasonable explanation for this." She turned to Oscar, offering him a chance to redeem himself. "Mr. Pierce, would you mind explaining what happened here?"

Oscar hesitated, his throat working as he swallowed dryly. His eyes flickered nervously between Susanne and Amelie, tiny beads of sweat dotting his forehead.

"Well," he began cautiously, his voice shaking slightly, "since the submission was anonymous, I... I covered the signature to keep my identity hidden."

Anna couldn’t help but smirk—she found his attempt at a lie impressively quick. "But, Mr. Pierce," she interrupted him, "weren’t you aware from the beginning that the submission was anonymous?"

Oscar wiped a trembling hand across his damp forehead, avoiding eye contact. "Yes, but... it’s a habit of mine. I always sign my paintings, let them dry, and... I just forgot about it until a few days ago."

Anna nodded slowly, her smile cool and understanding. "I see... But the signature seems rather unique. Is that your alias? What does it mean?"

Oscar faltered, glancing at Susanne, whose clenched fists were resting tightly on her knees. The deep furrow between her brows was enough to show her frustration—and maybe even her fear.

Caught with no way out, Oscar reluctantly turned back to the painting. His eyes squinted as he tried to decipher the signature, but it was clear he was at a loss.

Anna’s smirk deepened.

You won’t be able to read it.

She had deliberately signed the painting with her middle name—Adele—the one that no one had ever remembered. And to make it even more difficult, she had written it in a scrawl that was nearly impossible to read.

Oscar’s silence was becoming increasingly frustrating.

Anna let out a heavy sigh, her patience wearing thin. She decided to offer him one final chance—a "lifeline."

"How about this," she suggested, her voice laced with a hidden challenge. "Why don’t you try copying the signature for us? That way, we can easily confirm that the painting is indeed yours, and this whole situation will be resolved."

"Great idea," Amelie chimed in, her tone smooth and supportive as she gestured for her assistant to step forward. "Kathy, would you kindly bring Mr. Pierce a piece of paper and a pen?"

Kathy quickly complied, handing Oscar the materials, but Oscar did not seem eager to prove his innocence.

He stood there, staring at the signature, his eyes filled with mounting desperation. He studied the obscure name, but Anna could see through the façade. Beneath his composed exterior, there was a quiet panic.

With hands that trembled ever so slightly, Oscar took the pen and placed it on the notebook Kathy had given him. But as soon as he made the first attempt to replicate the signature, the pen slipped from his fingers, and the notebook fell to the floor with a soft thud.

He froze for a moment before blurting out the truth in a rush of defeat.

"Alright, fine!" he snapped, his voice breaking with frustration. "I don’t know what’s written there! It’s not my signature! It’s not my painting!"

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