Chapter 6
828 Words
Bramwell Group's official statement blew up online overnight.
The hashtags #BramwellGroupFightsBack and #SilenciaCharityFraud shot straight to the top of the trending list.
The record-breaking twenty-million-dollar sale of Ashes had already made me a household name.
Now the whole internet turned on me overnight.
A: [Milking a fake tragedy and hiding behind charity? Silencia really thinks we're all idiots?]
B: [Stealing money meant for sick kids just to clout-chase and jack up her prices? She's rotten to the core.]
C: [Boycott every single one of her paintings. People like her don't belong in the art world.]
My social media pages flooded with hate comments within hours.
Robb scrolled through the vitriol, his face completely impassive.
He was sure I'd cave. No one could survive a storm this big.
But day after day, my studio stayed silent.
No response. No defense. The fire only grew.
Then a gossip account dug up my college past and posted it with a snide caption:
Chased Mr. Bramwell back in the day, dumped him when she thought he was broke, now scamming charity money for clout. Some people never change.
More outlets reached out to the foundation for comment. When the staff said "no comment at this time," the public took it as proof I was guilty.
By the end of it all, twenty-two collectors who'd bought my work banded together to demand full refunds.
The wave of bad press swallowed my whole career whole.
Then, deep into the night, my studio finally posted a response.
Gathering evidence took time, but every cent from Silencia's art sales has already gone to the children's surgeries.
Twelve images followed: bank statements, donation receipts, even photos of the kids who'd received treatment.
One person commented hesitantly:
[I work at a bank. These transaction records are real.]
But the doubt came roaring right back.
[Besides the twenty million for Ashes, Silencia has made almost ten million from other sales. This is nothing compared to what she made. It's still fraud.]
That comment got liked to the very top.
Through it all, I never said a word myself.
Robb watched the snowball of outrage with a cold, bitter smirk.
He'd thought I'd break in twenty-four hours. Now, a full day and night had passed, and I still hadn't shown my face.
His phone lit up. He swiped it open—and froze.
The studio had posted again. This time, there was only one image.
A death certificate. The bright red official seal burned like a brand on the screen.
This is to certify that Sienna Sorrel passed away on August 15, 2024, after succumbing to illness…
The whole internet went dead silent.
Then the comments split wide open.
A: [Sienna's dead? Then who's been scamming people? There's no way this is real.]
B: [She died before Ashes even sold. Why would she fake charity money? What would be the point?]
Robb stared at the certificate and laughed. A cold, humorless sound.
He saved the Louvre screenshot the class president had sent him and posted it straight to his public profile.
His caption read:
Sienna. What kind of illness kills someone who looks this healthy?
In the photo, I was glowing, bright, and smiling. No trace of sickness anywhere.
Satisfied, he tossed his phone aside and forgot about it.
Just then, Irene walked in with a plate of cut fruit, soft and concerned.
"Robb, I'm so sorry you've had to deal with all this because of me."
Robb shook his head. "Your problem is my problem."
Irene smiled up at him. "Hey… my parents are already asking about the engagement. Do you think we could—"
Robb cut her off. "Not yet. We'll set a date once this is all cleared up. Once your name's clean."
Irene hid her flash of irritation and nodded. "Okay."
She paused at the door. "Hurry, though. They're already picking out my wedding dress."
Robb frowned. The word "wedding" twisted something sharp in his chest.
He remembered the old family ring his mother had given me before she died.
"This is for the woman you marry," she'd said.
He squeezed his eyes shut and shoved the memory back down where it belonged.
He didn't sleep a wink that night.
The next morning, he walked into the lobby and found Teresa standing there, pale as a ghost.
Robb pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded at security.
"Escort her out. I don't want to see her in this building again."
Teresa fought off the guards, her voice raw and furious.
"Robb! Those paintings are her life's work. Is this really necessary?"
Robb stopped walking. His voice was cold as stone.
"Not my problem. Oh—and tell Sienna to give my mother's ring back. She doesn't deserve it."
He kept walking.
Teresa screamed after him, loud enough for the whole lobby to hear.
"Robb, you want to see Sienna that badly?
"Longitude 109°40', latitude 35°05'.
"Westown. Go find her yourself!"
- Writer
