Chapter 283: Posthumous Work (2)
Ten million dollars in inheritance!
Everly knew painters could make good money, but she’d never had any connection to the industry herself. She had no concept of how much the works of a top-tier artist could sell for.
Besides, whenever her deadbeat father “dropped some gold coins”—that is, reluctantly sent her money—it was usually only a few tens of thousands of dollars at a time, and he always acted as though parting with the cash was killing him. After enough of those experiences, Everly had naturally concluded that the man wasn’t particularly successful and simply couldn’t hold on to his money.
But the truth was…
The one without money had been her all along.
The gullible one had been her, too.
While she and her grandfather, Old John, had been scraping by at their rundown gas station, working themselves to the bone, her deadbeat father had been living in a sprawling mansion several hundred square meters in size, practically walking on gold-plated floors, leading the empty yet luxurious life of the rich.
That old bastard!
He was that wealthy, and he still pinched pennies whenever he sent her money?
How did he have the nerve?!
Tears of sorrow began to flow—straight out of the corner of her mouth.
Clenching her fist, Everly couldn’t help but slam it onto the table with a loud bang.
“I’ll attend the posthumous exhibition on time.”
“Very well.”
With Everly’s confirmation, the lawyer promptly arranged a time and place to meet her the following day.
After finally hanging up the lengthy call, Everly sat down at her computer desk and began furiously typing away at the keyboard.
Although she had agreed without hesitation, Everly actually had plenty of doubts about the whole affair. The only reason she had accepted so readily was because Shelly was offering far too much money to resist.
After all, sayings like “wealth cannot corrupt me” were fine to spout in theory. But in real life, who wouldn’t want to inherit ten million dollars, reach the pinnacle of success overnight, and spend the rest of their life doing absolutely nothing?
She had agreed to go, but before setting off, there were still many things she needed to figure out.
The first was her deadbeat father’s death.
The news reports she found online all stated that “police have ruled out homicide,” but were vague about the exact cause of death. The lawyer, on the other hand, had been much more specific—he had plainly said that Shelly had died by s**cide.
Everly found that difficult to believe.
She simply couldn’t picture her deadbeat father as someone who would take his own life.
Back when she was still an infant, Shelly had been nothing more than an impoverished, unknown painter. He had barely had a penny to his name and had survived on the insurance payout left behind by her late mother, Rachel. Those had been truly desperate days.
If he hadn’t given up on life then, why would he suddenly choose s**cide now, after finally achieving both a successful career and a happy family?
She browsed several well-known art communities and traditional painting forums online, searching for discussions about Shelly. Buried among the conversations of art enthusiasts, she found a few clues.
In the end, it all came back to the same old issue.
It had been mentioned before that the art world generally regarded The Sea Demon Under the Moon as the pinnacle of Shelly’s artistic achievement.
Even now, Shelly had continued producing new paintings, and his reputation in the art world had only grown larger. Yet no matter how many new works he created, none of them ever managed to surpass The Sea Demon Under the Moon.
As a result, more and more people had begun to argue that Shelly’s masterpiece had simply been a flash of inspiration from an otherwise mediocre painter—a lucky accident. In their view, all the paintings he produced afterward represented his true level of ability.
Through that one stroke of luck, Shelly had seized wealth, fame, attention, and prestige that had never truly belonged to him. He was a despicable fraud—a thief who had stolen a reputation far beyond his actual ability, all style and no substance.
For a painter who had devoted his entire life to art, there could hardly be a crueler judgment.
[I was lucky enough to attend one of Shelly’s exhibitions a few years ago. A reporter actually shoved a microphone in his face and asked whether The Sea Demon Under the Moon had really been painted by him, implying he’d hired a ghost painter. Shelly’s face twisted with rage.]
[Haha, and you’re actually feeling sorry for him? He rode a lucky break and his good looks to fame, enjoying rewards that far exceeded his talent. Isn’t it only natural that he’s suffering the backlash now?]
[Give the jealousy a rest. You say Shelly painted The Sea Demon Under the Moon by luck? Then why hasn’t anyone else gotten ‘lucky’ and painted another masterpiece like it? Or do they just not feel like it?]
[Honestly, I think Shelly had already been showing signs of depression back then. Artists tend to be emotionally sensitive. Even if they act like they don’t care, they’re often trapped by their own thoughts inside… If I remember correctly, he hasn’t appeared in public for nearly six months. His assistant said he’s been shut away in his studio. I suspect his depression got worse.]
[…]
[Breaking news from a reliable source: Shelly’s death was neither an accident nor a homicide. He wrote his will in his studio before taking his own life! That makes the depression theory seem very likely. Poor Shelly. I hope he’s finally free from the world’s harsh judgments and has found peace. R.I.P.]
…
Everly continued browsing several more discussion threads.
She found that public opinion was remarkably consistent.
The overwhelming majority believed that Shelly had been unable to create another painting that surpassed The Sea Demon Under the Moon. Crushed by years of criticism and mounting pressure, he had eventually developed a mental illness and died by s**cide.
Everly couldn’t help recalling the chance encounter she’d had with Shelly at the Gilosha Art Exhibition six months earlier.
Back then, reporters had hounded him like a pack of hyenas, relentlessly asking whether he’d already exhausted his talent and had nothing left to offer. They had nearly driven Shelly into an explosion of rage.
If someone had to live in that kind of environment day after day—constantly belittled and criticized—it would be a miracle if they didn’t develop psychological problems.
Seen from that perspective, Shelly’s death almost made sense.
Having more or less convinced herself, Everly set the matter aside and turned her attention to gathering other information she cared about.
Her search included, but was not limited to:
Charlie the lawyer’s background.
The current situation in New Alder City.
The history of Clester Gallery.
The list of guests attending the posthumous exhibition.
Transportation to the exhibition.
Any cities she might have to pass through along the way.
By the time she’d finished investigating everything, it was nearly dawn.
After weighing all the information, Everly rated the trip’s risk level as “low.”
Charlie was a well-known estate attorney with an excellent professional reputation. He had handled inheritance cases for numerous wealthy clients and had no notable scandals attached to his name.
The exhibition mentioned in the will would be held in New Alder City. Although it wasn’t the state capital, it was the largest and most prosperous cultural and tourist city in Ascamona State. There were direct flights from Concord, the capital of New Osebuch State, to New Alder City, and after landing, she could simply take a taxi straight to the gallery.
New Alder City itself had been quiet lately. There were no reports of anything resembling the kind of large-scale disasters she’d experienced before. Clester Gallery, where the exhibition would be held, appeared to be an ordinary gallery located in a busy downtown district. It wasn’t in some remote location, nor did it have any troubling rumors surrounding it.
As for the guests, just as the lawyer had said, they were all prominent figures in the art world. A few had less-than-stellar reputations, but none seemed like the sort who would suddenly lose their minds and start attacking people at an art exhibition.
All in all, aside from the rather unusual condition attached to claiming the inheritance, Everly couldn’t find anything suspicious.
So, as agreed, she met with Lawyer Charlie the day after receiving his phone call.
The lawyer filled Everly in on a few more details about Shelly.
Just as she’d read on the forums, Shelly had long been plagued by public criticism because he was unable to surpass his own masterpiece. The pressure had become so intense that he had been seeing a psychologist on a regular basis.
At the end of August last year, after returning from a trip to gather artistic inspiration, Shelly secluded himself.
He shut himself away in his studio on the outskirts of New Alder City, spending every day painting in isolation and refusing to see anyone.
If a servant hadn’t noticed that the previous day’s meal had gone untouched and informed Sophia out of concern, no one outside might have realized he had already died.
Before marrying Sophia, Shelly had signed a prenuptial agreement.
The agreement stipulated that if either spouse died, the surviving spouse would have no claim to the deceased’s personal assets.
As a result, Shelly’s will bypassed Sophia entirely and divided his estate solely between his two biological children.
Everly had no idea which of them had proposed the agreement or why the other had agreed to sign it. All she knew was that, after hearing about it, she couldn’t help thinking that wealthy people’s relationships were remarkably pragmatic. Even between husband and wife, finances were kept strictly separate.
After meeting with the lawyer, Everly requested leave that very afternoon. She also gave Old John a call to let him know that his son-in-law, Shelly, had died and that she was about to leave to claim the old bastard’s inheritance.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Old John asked after a long silence.
“No need. Ascamona State is pretty far away. It’d be too exhausting for you to make the trip. Just stay home and wait for my good news. I’ll call you once I get there.”
“Then… are you… all right?”
“Huh? I’m fine…”
At first, Everly didn’t understand what her grandfather meant.
Then, after thinking about it for a moment—
Oh, right.
She had almost forgotten.
Her father had died.
Most people would probably feel grief or a sense of loss in a situation like this.
After all, what child from a single-parent family hasn’t, at some point while growing up, longed for a father? Who hasn’t imagined having the same complete, loving family that other children seemed to have?
Human emotions are complicated.
Even if that father never actually raised them, news of his death can still be painful. It marks the end of any lingering hope of ever having a complete family, or of experiencing the fatherly affection they had always quietly wished for.
If Everly had been an ordinary person with no memories of her previous life, she probably wouldn’t have been any different.
But she wasn’t.
She retained faint memories of her previous life. Although she could no longer remember her parents’ faces, she did remember that she had grown up in a home with both her mother and father.
She knew what fatherly love felt like.
And she also knew that, compared to the mother who carried and gave birth to a child, a father whose only contribution was a moment of conception wasn’t inherently worth much.
If you were fortunate enough to have a responsible father, then by actively participating in raising his child, genuine affection would naturally grow.
But if you ended up with a father who had no sense of responsibility…
Then having him or not having him made little difference.
That was why Everly had never placed much hope in Shelly, the man who had abandoned her.
When she first heard of his death, she had sighed for a moment.
But soon afterward, the sheer joy of unexpectedly inheriting ten million dollars had hit her like a freight train, knocking every trace of sadness clean out of her head.
“I’m really fine,” she said honestly. “Shelly may have been my father, but he barely raised me at all, so… I just can’t bring myself to feel sad.”
On the other end of the phone, Old John seemed to chuckle softly.
“As long as you’re okay… Then I won’t come over and get in your way. Just be careful while you’re traveling by yourself.”
“Mhm. I will.”
After quickly wrapping up everything at school, Everly boarded a plane the following afternoon. Accompanied by the lawyer, she flew directly to New Alder City and checked into a local hotel that evening without incident.
Shelly’s posthumous exhibition would be held the next day.
There wasn’t even time to mourn the passing of her deadbeat father. Exhausted from the long journey, Everly fell asleep almost as soon as she climbed into bed.
The next morning, she put on the black women’s business suit she had purchased specifically for the occasion and took a taxi to Clester Gallery.
