The Slumdog Billionaire

94. Fake Billionaire Heir

Chapter Ninety Four

Henry was knee-deep in soap suds, mopping the glossy marble floors of the gallery.

The irony was sharp, but he held his head high, trying to ignore the stinging humiliation that clung to him like the scent of cleaning chemicals.

The ring on his finger pulsed faintly, as though reminding him of its presence, of the strange pull it held over him.

And then, almost without thought, he found himself standing in front of the torn artwork—the one that had ignited this chain of ridicule and disbelief.

Without understanding why, Henry reached out, his fingers hovering over the torn canvas. He could feel the texture of the fabric beneath his fingertips, the brushstrokes and pigments alive under the lights.

Then, in a trance-like state, he lifted the painting from the wall, his hands moving instinctively.

He didn’t even realize he was moving toward the back storage room until he stood before shelves of painting supplies, reaching for brushes, paints, and an assort