Page 142 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"All of it."

"Then what do you do?"

"I'll upgrade the lighting, shipping, and insurance. I'll reserve slots for kids from the community studio. And I'll make sure none of your work ever gets destroyed again."

"And security?"

"You won't see them."

She sighed. "Fine."

The paintings on the walls held flour-dusted hands kneading dough, streetlights in rainwater, a kid's crooked sun, an empty chair beside half-finished coffee.

She painted little things time tried to steal.

So every piece made people stop.

On opening night, critics, collectors, reporters, and regular visitors packed the room. Neighborhood kids surrounded her, calling her name. She wore a dark green dress and crouched down to talk to them like she forgot she was the center of the night.

A collector wanted to buy the entire community portrait series.

"Not for sale," Elena said. "After the show, they go back to the community."

"I can pay more."

"It's not about money."

Her voice stayed calm, but she didn't move an inch. In the end, he bought another piece. Then more offers started piling up for the curator.

They finally saw her talent.

I'd once thrown her supplies into the rain. Standing in a gallery lit up for her, I understood exactly how stupid I'd been.

Yegor showed up late. He congratulated Elena and pulled her into a brief hug. My jaw tightened instantly.

Feodor murmured beside me, "Parenting books don't cover assaulting a romantic rival at an art show."

"He hugged her too long."

"Less than two seconds."

In the end, I did nothing.

I looked toward the center of the crowd. Elena answered a reporter, eyes bright, spine straight.

As the night wound down, the curator asked her to speak.

"I used to think what got left behind had to be pretty enough, expensive enough, to deserve being remembered," she said, looking at the paintings. "Then I realized what people can't let go of is usually small. Someone holding your hand. A light left on for you. A sentence you never got to finish."

Her gaze cut through the room and found me.

Applause rose.

I waited until it died completely before I walked out.

She saw the box in my hand and stopped breathing.

The first wedding, she'd worn a dress that didn't fit, shoved toward me by her family. I hadn't asked if she wanted any of it. I'd slid a ring onto her finger like I was stamping a contract.