Chapter 438

"Must you scream like a banshee? Do you intend to disgrace our gallery by making a scene in front of our guests?" The gallery manager strode over, his voice sharp with disapproval.

The snobbish greeter instantly deflated at his arrival. "I'm sorry, sir. There's a woman causing trouble—she's dressed completely inappropriately, yet she insists on entering," she whined, feigning innocence.

The manager's gaze landed on Evelyn, and his expression shifted instantly. He bowed deeply, his tone dripping with servility. "Miss Whitmore! What an honor to have you here!"

The greeter blinked in shock. "Sir, who—?"

Evelyn smirked. "Yes, I'm here. Though it seems your gallery has a strict policy against people dressed like me."

The manager flushed, shooting a furious glare at the greeter before hastily apologizing. "My deepest apologies, Miss Whitmore. She's just a temporary hire—unfamiliar with our protocols. Please don't take offense. I assure you, she'll be dismissed immediately."

"I couldn't care less about your staffing decisions," Evelyn said coolly. "But art belongs to everyone, not just the wealthy. How someone chooses to dress is their own business. Your gallery shouldn't foster a culture that judges people by their clothes."

The manager bobbed his head eagerly. "Absolutely, Miss Whitmore. We'll take this as a learning opportunity and retrain our staff accordingly."

Evelyn arched a brow. "Am I allowed inside now?"

"Of course! Right this way, Miss Whitmore!" He gestured grandly, ushering her in.

She strolled past him, unhurried, while the greeter gaped after her.

"Sir," the greeter hissed once Evelyn was out of earshot, "who the hell is that woman?"

"Watch your tongue!" the manager snapped. "That is Miss Whitmore—our most distinguished guest. Cross her, and you'll regret it for the rest of your miserable life!"

The greeter paled. That was the VIP he'd been waiting for? This casually dressed nobody? "But she doesn’t look like she could afford a cup of coffee! Who is she?"

The manager sneered. "That’s none of your concern. Consider this your official termination. Collect your final paycheck from accounting and get out. We don’t employ shallow, classless fools like you."

Her jaw dropped. "Sir, please—I didn’t mean any harm! Give me another chance!"

He shook her off with disgust, brushing his sleeve where she'd touched him. Without another word, he turned on his heel and hurried back inside to mingle with the elite.

Fury and humiliation burned in the greeter’s chest, but she had no choice. Sniffling, she stormed off to accounting.

Inside, the gallery hummed with soft classical music. Most guests clustered around the famous pieces, murmuring praises.

Evelyn lingered in a quieter corner, studying a still-life painting with detached interest. Truthfully, commercial exhibitions like this bored her. She was only here for one reason: Raphael Devereaux.

According to Gregory, Raphael had been her mother’s art teacher—the only lead she had left. If anyone could tell her about Vivian Sterling, it was him.

Who was my mother? Who was chasing her? Is she even alive? The questions swirled relentlessly in her mind.

The manager reappeared, oozing deference. "Miss Whitmore, have any pieces caught your eye? I’d be delighted to share their histories with you."

Evelyn barely glanced at him. "Not yet. But tell me—when does Raphael arrive?"

The manager sighed. "Ah, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans. Raphael was scheduled to attend, but his wife fell ill just before his flight. He’s staying in Phinacea to care for her. He won’t be visiting our country anytime soon."