Hand over the badge, sweetheart — a small-town nobody like you doesn’t get to

The curator, Mr. Ashcroft himself, gave a tight nod. Vivienne rolled her eyes and mouthed ‘make it quick.’ I opened the folio — not to the sketches, but to the last page. A signed contract. ‘Before I go,’ I said, keeping my voice soft so the whole room had to lean in, ‘I think the buyers deserve to know who actually painted the twelve pieces hanging on these walls.’ Vivienne’s smile cracked. ‘Every canvas in this exhibit is signed J. Wren,’ I continued. ‘That’s me. Juliet Wren. Vivienne Wren is my half-sister. She has never held a brush in her life.’ A murmur rippled through the crowd. Mr. Ashcroft’s eyebrows climbed. I turned the page. ‘This is the exclusivity agreement I signed with the Ashcroft Foundation six months ago. It states, in clause four, that any attempt by a third party to misrepresent authorship voids their access to the venue — permanently.’ Vivienne laughed, shrill. ‘He doesn’t even know who you are!’ Mr. Ashcroft cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Ms. Wren and I have been corresponding for eleven months. I recognized her the moment she walked in. I was waiting to see what you would do.’ The champagne flute in Vivienne’s hand tilted. My mother’s whisper died in her throat. Then Mr. Ashcroft did something I will remember until the day my hands stop working — he took the little brass nameplate off the podium, walked it across the marble, and pressed it into my palm. ‘The buyers are waiting, Miss Wren. Shall we begin?’ I passed Vivienne on the way to the stage. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. Every piece sold that night. The largest — a portrait of a girl sewing her own dress under a bare bulb — went for ninety-two thousand dollars. My mother tried to hug me at the after-party. I handed her Vivienne’s coat instead, and told her the exit was to the left.