Hand over the gallery keys, Eleanor, before you embarrass yourself further. Mother always said

Vivian slid the folder onto the reception desk with a smirk. “It’s a buyout offer. Mother’s trust gave us equal shares, but Preston and I are prepared to be generous. Sign tonight, and you walk away with enough to rent a little studio somewhere quiet. Vermont, maybe.” The room had gone silent. Preston smiled the way men smile when they’ve already won. I picked up the folder, flipped through it slowly, then set it back down without signing. “Vivian,” I said gently, “do you know who funded this gallery’s renovation last spring?” She rolled her eyes. “Some anonymous patron. Everyone knows that.” I nodded. “His name is Julian Acosta. He represents the estate of Margaret Whitmore.” Her smile flickered. “Mother’s estate was divided equally.” “The trust was,” I agreed. “But the gallery itself, the building, the inventory, the name? Mother transferred those to a separate LLC eighteen months before she passed. She left them to the daughter who actually showed up at the hospice.” From the back of the room, Julian stepped forward in his charcoal suit, briefcase in hand. He nodded at me, then at Vivian. “Mrs. Whitmore-Calloway, the offer you just made would require your sister’s signature on assets she solely owns. I’d advise you to retract it before the witnesses in this room become a problem for your husband’s fund.” Preston’s face drained. Vivian’s flute trembled. “That’s impossible. Mother loved me.” “She did,” I said. “She also heard you call her paintings oatmeal at Christmas, the year she was dying.” I turned to the collectors, who were pretending not to listen and failing beautifully. “Tonight’s proceeds go to the Margaret Whitmore Scholarship for working-class painters. The first recipient is a young woman from Vermont, actually.” Applause started slow, then swelled. Vivian grabbed the folder and walked out on heels that suddenly sounded too loud. Preston followed, phone already at his ear. I picked up my brush from the desk, smiled at Julian, and went back to my guests. The paint under my thumbnail had finally dried.