Chapter 2

I blinked, genuinely stunned.

"You're jealous that I have a son."

"You're pushing mid-thirties, totally single, no family, and you can't stand seeing anyone else have a life."

Marcus's gaze shifted, looking at me with fresh suspicion.

Wayne ran with it, feeding off the attention. "I know your type! You hide behind 'rules' and 'policy,' but deep down, you're just a bitter, miserable creature who hates seeing other people happy!"

"You don't understand the sacred love of a father, so you take every chance to tear parents down."

He swiped his tears, sneering openly.

"Oh, and let’s not forget my quarterly review. I scored higher than you last quarter, didn't I? You’ve been seething ever since!"

"So now you're taking your petty, childish revenge out on my dying boy's painting?"

His chest puffed out, brimming with self-righteous fury.

"Let me make this crystal clear: my son's painting is an original! If you don't believe me, it just proves how dark and twisted your mind really is!"

I stared at him, calmly picking up the waiver.

"Fine."

Wayne’s eyes lit up, assuming I had folded.

I neatly folded the paper and slipped it into my blazer pocket. "If you won't sign, it won't hang in the center. I'll find another submission. Yours will be placed at the very end of the hall, according to regular submission order."

Wayne’s face turned completely purple.

Marcus slammed his coffee cup onto the desk with a sharp thud.

"Evelyn, that's enough!"

I turned to face him.

His expression was dark, his voice dripping with authority.

"Rules are guidelines; people are human."

"The boy is sick. This might be his last wish. You're seriously going to stonewall a dying kid over red tape?"

I didn't flinch. "I am protecting this company from unnecessary legal liability."

He jabbed his finger toward me. "Even if he copied an idea, so what? The kid has leukemia! Who on earth would sue a dying seven-year-old?"

Wayne nodded furiously, squeezing out another stream of tears.

Marcus shook his head in disgust. "Take Wayne's painting and hang it on the centerpiece wall right now. If anything happens, I'll take full responsibility."

I stood rooted to the spot.

"What?" Marcus frowned. "Are you deaf? Did you not hear my direct order?"

"Director Marcus, I will not hang that painting."

"I am the Event Director. My word is final." His voice turned icy. "Are you going to hang it, or not?"

Wayne crossed his arms, the corner of his mouth curling into a smug smirk.

I exhaled slowly. "No."

Marcus’s jaw clenched.

"Fine, Evelyn. Real brave of you." He ground out, "You think this department can't function without you?"

He turned to Wayne. "Come on. I'll hang it up myself."

Wayne’s eyes gleamed with triumph, scurrying after him like a lapdog.

After a couple of steps, Wayne looked back over his shoulder at me.

His eyes screamed: "Who do you think you are?"

I pulled out my phone and quietly snapped a crisp photo of their retreating backs.

When the two of them climbed the stepladder to hang the canvas, I took another photo, catching both Marcus’s hands on the frame and Wayne holding the ladder.

By five that afternoon, the gallery setup was complete.

I walked the floor. Right in the dead center of the main wall hung Wayne's submission.

A cartoon dog rendered with flawless, dynamic line art and professional color gradients—far too sophisticated for any seven-year-old.

I took a high-resolution photo of the wall, followed by a photo of the final floor-plan sign-off sheet, stamped with Marcus's signature.