The Ex-Wife He Can’t Have novel Chapter 90

He hadn't managed to get a clear look at her mother's face. From the back, she appeared to be nothing more than an aging, hunched-over woman with graying hair and an unrefined, thoroughly common demeanor.

A wave of sheer aristocratic disgust washed over him, completely eclipsed by an overwhelming sense of suspicion.

"Your last name is Jarrett? What is your mother's name?" he demanded, locking eyes with Jillian.

Jillian's expression was glacial. Without realizing it, she squeezed her hands into tight fists. "I hardly think that's any of your business, Mr. Xavier."

A fleeting look of absolute shock crossed Silas's face.

She wasn't just being impolite; she was radiating pure, unfiltered hostility.

But then he rationalized it—she was probably lashing out because of his connection to Sylvia.

Silas didn't dwell on it any further.

In his mind, he had already concocted a narrative. For a girl as young as Jillian to orchestrate a scheme as devious as drugging Killian Quincy to secure a marriage, her low-class mother had to have been the mastermind behind it all.

Jillian couldn't have cared less about the vile assumptions swimming in his head. "Let's go inside, Con," she said icily.

"Don't worry, I will ensure he is perfectly taken care of—"

Jillian didn't even wait for him to finish. She turned on her heel and practically stormed toward the gallery's grand entrance.

Silas was forced to swallow the rest of his sentence. He scoffed, thinking to himself that he was doing her a massive favor by even acknowledging her existence.

He then led Connor into the exhibition hall.

Once inside, Silas spent the next hour parading Connor around to the various elite VIPs.

Given his status as the Quincy family's little prince, the wealthy patrons fell over themselves to shower him with praise, marveling at his "prodigious talent" and loudly declaring that under Professor Xavier's tutelage, he would undoubtedly become a world-renowned artist.

Obviously, it was all hollow flattery.

Suddenly, she caught fragments of a hushed conversation between two well-dressed attendees nearby. "The great and powerful Silas Xavier. Honestly? It's nothing special."

His companion aggressively elbowed him in the ribs. "Keep your voice down. That's Silas Xavier you're talking about."

"So what? Don't buy into the hype of these so-called 'master artists.' I've heard the rumors about him. Back in the day, he was just some starving hack who couldn't sell a single canvas."

"Then how did he become this famous?"

"He hooked a massively wealthy sugar mommy. She threw endless cash at him, funded his exhibitions out of pocket, and used her high-society connections to secure him a cushy teaching gig at an elite art academy. He slept his way up the ladder until the socialites decided he was a genius. It's all manufactured hype and dirty money."

"Jesus, shut up before someone hears you."

A cold, bitter laugh escaped Jillian's lips. Her mother had been completely right all those years ago. Silas had gotten utterly sick of struggling. Relying on nothing but a handsome face and his brooding, tortured-artist routine, he had manipulated Madeline Xavier into bankrolling his entire life.

It was the oldest, most pathetic story in the book: a wealthy socialite buying herself an artist.