Love or Die: CEO’ s Daily Dose of Swoon (Cordelia) novel Chapter 132

Chapter 132 

Fanny’s face darkened. She had never imagined that a mere painting would prompt Naylor to invoke the name of B Aster, but she quickly regained her composure, saying, “Well then, if Mr. Aster is available But isn’t he in a meeting right now?” 

The current exhibit was meant to celebrate the culture of the Superiority Country, so the Art Association was taking it very seriously, with endless meetings to discuss the details. 

Navlor coughed and glanced at his watch, “About another half–hour, I reckon.” 

Fanny hummed in response, then added with a pointed tone. “I’m curious, does Mr. Finegan know the artist of this painting?” 

Her question made the underlying message clear to everyone present. 

Someone spoke up. “Why would a nobody’s work be critiqued by a giant of Watercolor Painting? What’s the story behind this artist?” 

Lorna’s face turned even paler. She looked to Cordelia, “Lia, I want to go home.” 

Cordelia supported her, her eyes clouded with confusion and helplessness. 

It seemed Lorna was hurt, but Cordelia, ever the awkward comforter, could only nod, her voice unexpectedly gentle, “Okay” 

She helped Lorna to the exit. 

Mrs. Brown tried to console her, “Mrs. Delaney, your painting is quite impressive; don’t take it to heart.” 

Lorna mustered a weak smile and staggered out. 

The car ride home was steeped in silence. Cordelia didn’t know how to break the quiet. She fiddled with her phone and sent a message. [Hey, are you free?] 

Mr. All–Round replied, [What’s up?] 

LearnLover said, [My mother’s painting was criticized today, and she’s feeling down. How do I comfort her?] 

Mr. All–Round replied,I suggest you say nothing.) 

Cordelia paused, then after a moment, a longer message arrived. 

Mr. All–Round said,[Your mother always aims to maintain the image of a good mother in front of you. She wouldn’t want to show her vulnerability and frustration. Any comfort you offer might only add to her sense of shame.] 

Cordelia was convinced, [Okay] After sending the message, she recounted the incident to Sanderson. 

Sanderson replied, [I’m heading home now.] 

The car soon arrived at their house. 

Lorna’s smile was more bitter than tears. As soon as they entered the living room, her phone rang. 

Cordelia, with her sharp instincts, overheard the voice on the phone, “Lorna, someone wants to buy your painting.” 

Lorna’s eyes lit up. “Who?” 

The voice hesitated, “It’s a stranger. He asked for your work by name as soon as he walked in, but he… he…” There was a sigh, “He said, based on Fanny’s comment, that your painting is all technique, no soul. So, he’s offering fifty bucks.” 

Even mass–produced artists‘ works commanded more, particularly for a bold landscape like Lorna’s, which 

should fetch at least a few hundred, not to mention the cost of framing. 

Fifty bucks. It was an insult. 

Lorna’s fingers tightened, a struggle evident in her eyes. 

Cordelia grabbed the phone, “Sorry, my mom’s not selling.” 

The caller paused, then agreed, “Alright.” 

After hanging up, Cordelia handed the phone back. 

The crushing blow to Lorna’s confidence was too much to hide, she stumbled into her room, bypassing Mathilda, who emerged to speak. Lorna headed straight upstairs to her studio without a word. 

Mathilda was puzzled, “What happened?” 

Cordelia explained the events of the exhibition again. 

Mathilda exhaled deeply, “Even the best can rust after eighteen years. But Fanny is clearly trying to break your mom, make her lose her confidence first!” 

In professions like painting or writing, the work is tied to the artist’s state of mind. 

= 

If Lorna lost belief in herself, what would come next? 

Cordelia looked upstairs, worried. 

Just then, a car pulled up outside, and Sanderson strode into the house, “Where’s your mom?” 

“In the studio upstairs.” 

Without another word, Sanderson headed up, “I’ll check on her.” 

Mathilda and Cordelia exchanged glances, and she sighed, “Back in the day, your dad was the least noticeable. among your mom’s suitors. Turns out she chose right. Why am I telling you this? Go upstairs and do your homework, Lia. Don’t worry about your mom, she’ll be fine.” 

In the studio, the window was open, letting the breeze flutter the white curtains and rustle the papers on the 

desk. 

Lorna sat on the sofa, her elegant frame wrapped in a lilac dress, which only highlighted her growing frailty. She stared at the brushes and paper that had once been her life, haunted by Fanny’s words, “It seems the artist hasn’t painted in years… the brushstrokes are hesitant and stiff… 

No wonder her confidence was shaken – it had indeed been eighteen years since she’d last picked up a brush. 

Eighteen years ago, after having her child, she’d turned on the TV to catch a glimpse of a renowned art exhibit and became engrossed. By the time she snapped back to reality, the nanny had vanished, and the sleeping baby in the crib beside her was gone. 

No one knew how guilty she felt, she blamed herself entirely, which is why she put away her brushes forever. 

Eighteen years of aimlessness had stripped her of all her vigor.