Chapter 8 - The Woman Who Knew My Secret
The person standing in the doorway was my mother.
Lauren Mitchell.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Not me.
Not my father.
Not Victoria.
Not even Connor.
My mother stood beneath the restaurant lights wearing the same elegant coat she had left with earlier that night.
The same perfect hair.
The same expensive jewelry.
The same calm expression she always wore when she believed she had control.
But something was different.
Her eyes.
They weren’t cold.
They were afraid.
“Amber.”
She said my name softly.
Almost like she was relieved to see me.
I stared at her.
The woman who signed the contract.
The woman who helped hide my work.
The woman who spent years telling me I needed to be realistic.
“You knew.”
My voice was barely a whisper.
My mother’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“I can explain.”
I laughed.
A quiet, broken laugh.
Everyone always had an explanation.
My father.
Victoria.
Now her.
“I don’t want another explanation.”
My mother took a step forward.
“Amber, please.”
I stepped back.
The word sounded familiar.
Too familiar.
“Please what?”
Her face tightened.
“Please listen before you decide what happened.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
The answer came faster than I expected.
“I spent years listening.”
The restaurant became silent.
“I listened when Dad told me art wasn’t a career.”
I looked at my father.
“I listened when you told me I needed a safer path.”
Then back at my mother.
“I listened when you both made me believe I wasn’t good enough.”
My mother looked down.
For once, she had no immediate response.
Victoria crossed her arms.
“You should have told her.”
My mother looked at her.
“I was going to.”
Victoria shook her head.
“When?”
The question was sharp.
“After another year?”
My mother looked away.
That was enough.
I felt my chest tighten.
“Another year?”
I looked at her.
“You were still planning to hide it?”
“No.”
She answered quickly.
Then stopped.
Because even she knew it didn’t sound believable.
Connor quietly moved closer to me.
My mother noticed.
But she didn’t say anything.
Instead, she reached into her purse.
My entire body tensed.
Another document.
Another secret.
Another piece of my life hidden in someone else’s hands.
But she didn’t pull out paperwork.
She pulled out a small notebook.
Old.
Worn.
The cover was damaged.
She placed it on the table.
“I kept this because I couldn’t throw it away.”
I looked at it.
“What is it?”
My mother swallowed.
“Your first sketchbook.”
I froze.
I recognized it immediately.
The faded blue cover.
The small tear on the corner.
I hadn’t seen it in years.
“I thought I lost that.”
My mother looked at me.
“You didn’t.”
My fingers hovered above it.
“Where did you find it?”
Her eyes filled slightly.
“Your father took it.”
I looked at my father.
He didn’t deny it.
Again.
That hurt.
Because every time I expected him to defend himself, he proved he couldn’t.
I opened the sketchbook.
The first pages contained drawings I had forgotten.
Small buildings.
Street corners.
People sitting in cafes.
Things I drew when I was a child because I thought they were beautiful.
Then I reached a page near the middle.
A drawing I remembered.
A building with large windows.
A design I created when I was sixteen.
The same design Daniel Carter had praised.
My mother touched the page.
“This was the first one he saw.”
“Daniel?”
She nodded.
“He came to our house because he wanted to speak with you.”
My heart stopped.
“He came here?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
The same year everything changed.
The same year my father began telling me I needed to stop dreaming.
“What happened?”
My mother looked at my father.
And he looked away.
“He offered you an opportunity.”
My voice became quieter.
“What kind?”
“A scholarship.”
She paused.
“An internship.”
Another pause.
“And a chance to work with his company.”
I looked at my father.
“And you stopped it.”
He didn’t answer.
My mother did.
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt.
“Why?”
My mother sat down.
For the first time that night, she looked like someone carrying guilt instead of judgment.
“Because your father convinced me it would destroy your future.”
I stared.
“How?”
“He told me Daniel wanted to take advantage of you.”
Victoria immediately shook her head.
“That was a lie.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“I know that now.”
The words were quiet.
But they mattered.
Because they were the first real admission.
Not an excuse.
Not a defense.
A mistake.
“You knew?”
My mother nodded.
“I found out three months later.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Three months?”
She looked at me.
“By then, your father had already changed the paperwork.”
The contract.
The ownership.
Everything.
I looked down.
“So you knew.”
My mother nodded.
“Yes.”
The word was almost impossible to hear.
“And you still let me believe I failed.”
A tear fell down her face.
“I was afraid.”
I stared at her.
“Of what?”
She looked at my father.
“Of losing my family.”
The answer made me angry.
Because she was saying the same thing everyone said.
They were afraid.
They were protecting me.
They were making choices for me.
Nobody ever asked me.
Nobody ever trusted me.
My phone buzzed.
Everyone looked.
A message.
From Evelyn.
I opened it.
Amber, your parents are not the only ones who hid the truth.
My heart raced.
Another message appeared.
I found the original contract.
The one before your mother changed it.
I looked at my father.
Then my mother.
“What else is there?”
Nobody answered.
Then Evelyn sent one final message.
An attachment.
I opened it.
It was a scanned document.
At the bottom was a signature.
Not my father’s.
Not my mother’s.
Someone else.
Someone who had approved the contract before either of them touched it.
I zoomed in.
The name became clear.
And my blood ran cold.
Because the original owner of my artwork was not my family.
It was someone who had been dead for two years.
Daniel Carter.
I looked up.
“That’s impossible.”
Victoria’s face went pale.
“No.”
She whispered.
“That means…”
She didn’t finish.
Because my father’s phone suddenly rang.
He looked at the screen.
And this time, his fear was immediate.
He answered.
Only listened.
Then slowly looked at me.
“Amber.”
His voice broke.
“They found the warehouse.”
I stood frozen.
“What warehouse?”
My father lowered the phone.
The next words barely came out.
“The one where your real collection has been hidden.”
Before anyone could move, the restaurant lights flickered.
Then every phone in the room received the same message.
May you like
One sentence.
Your father wasn’t the person who took your art.
