Chapter 90
704 Words
A wave of astonishment rippled through the room.
"A fake?" someone gasped.
Aiden's face darkened. He pointed an accusing finger at Eamon. "How dare you try to deceive me with a forgery!"
Genuinely confused, Eamon retorted, "What are you talking about? How dare you accuse me of such a thing?"
Ethan pointed to the signature in the corner of the painting. "Colt Hoffman's signature is clearly wrong. And the colors are too fresh. This was painted recently."
Eamon paused, then burst into laughter. "Hahaha, your family is truly despicable! You actually switched out my famous painting. Hand over the real one immediately, or you'll pay me 50 million dollars!"
Aiden understood. It was a blatant setup. Eamon was trying to bankrupt the Nickson family with a fabricated accusation.
"And if you can't pay," Eamon added with a smirk, "I'll gladly accept that land as compensation."
Aiden's face was grim. "And what if I refuse?"
Eamon's smile turned predatory. "Then you'll pay, or you'll rot in jail."
Despair flickered in Aiden's eyes. It seemed the Nickson Group was doomed.
He looked years older in that instant, defeated. "Fine," he sighed. "I agree..."
Suddenly, Ethan strode towards the painting and ripped it in half.
The room fell silent, everyone staring at him in stunned disbelief.
Eamon gaped at the ruined canvas, speechless.
Even though it was a fake, it had still cost him a small fortune.
"You destroyed my painting!" Eamon roared; his face contorted with rage. "I don't care who you are, you've made an enemy of the Duncan family! You're dead! And you," he snarled at Aiden, "don't think you can escape responsibility by having him destroy the evidence! You'll still pay!"
Ethan looked at Eamon, his eyes filled with amusement. "Mr. Duncan, you claim to have brought a genuine masterpiece to the Nickson mansion. I believe you're lying."
Eamon scoffed. "Are you suggesting I'd stoop to using a fake painting to extort them?"
"Precisely," Ethan replied.
Eamon laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "A man of my stature, resorting to such a crude scheme? You're not just insulting me; you're insulting the entire Duncan lineage! And what proof do you have that this painting is a fake?"
"I wouldn't make such a claim without evidence," Ethan said, his smile widening.
Eamon gritted his teeth. "Fine! If you can prove it's a fake, I'll eat it! But if you can't... you're a dead man."
"It's a deal," Ethan said, extending his hand.
Aiden, horrified, grabbed Ethan's arm. "Mr. Lee, don't! That painting is practically indistinguishable from the real thing! It might even be genuine!"
Ethan chuckled. "Relax, Mr. Nickson. If I say it's a fake, it's a fake."
"And what proof do you have?" Eamon sneered.
A voice, old but strong, echoed through the room. "I can attest that the painting is a forgery."
An elderly man walked into the mansion, deliberately stepping on the torn canvas as he passed.
Eamon frowned. "And who are you?"
The old man smiled. "I'm the artist who painted it. Colt Hoffman."
Eamon's mind reeled. It couldn't be.
Colt had been busy restoring Notre Dame for years, never leaving Paris. How could he be here?
Aiden's eyes lit up with excitement. "Mr. Hoffman, It's an honor to have you in my home!"
He immediately called for paper and pen, eager for the artist's autograph. As Colt signed his name, Eamon's face paled. The distinctive signature… this man was the real deal.
He shot Ethan a venomous glare. "You… I'll remember this!" he spat, turning to leave.
"Hold on, Mr. Duncan," Ethan said calmly. "Didn't you forget something?"
Eamon stopped; his voice laced with menace. "You really expect me to eat that painting?"
"Indeed," Ethan said, nodding. "Those scraps on the floor. Eat them."
Eamon's face flushed with anger. "How dare you! No one speaks to me like that! I won't eat it! What are you going to do about it?"
Ethan's smile was cold. "I'm sure my men can be… persuasive."
Murderous intent flashed in Eamon's eyes. "No one threatens Eamon Duncan! Kill him!"
Eamon's bodyguards lunged at Ethan, but Cole was already moving, intercepting them with a roar.
The two groups clashed, a whirlwind of fists and feet.
- Writer
