Penelope Steele watched her reaction with satisfaction, as if she had been waiting for this exact moment.
She stepped forward, her tone gentle, almost motherly.
"What you said is indeed true. Those details are Jason Smith's habits known to the world."
"But this painting…"
She paused deliberately.
"is also Jason Smith's."
Isabella's throat felt tight.
Penelope Steele patted the back of her hand lightly, her smile deepening.
"This is a painting from when he was young. At that time, he had not yet met the woman he loved, and he had not yet lost her either."
Her voice became softer, almost nostalgic.
"So his style was still immature. The brush strokes were rough, the composition not as perfect, and he hadn't developed his later strict habits yet."
"But, Miss…"
Penelope Steele's eyes narrowed slightly, and her tone became firm. "A painter's soul does not change."
She pointed at the painting. "The way he layers color. The way he treats light. The way he leaves space."
