"The Exclusive isn't the painting, Julian," Jenny said, clicking her pen shut. "The Exclusive is that you’re exhausted. The Exclusive is that the 'genius' of Thorne is a persona, and the real artist is terrified of being seen."

It was Jenny, sitting at her desk, reading a book. But the detail was excruciating. The artist had captured the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the furrow in her brow, the loneliness in the set of her shoulders. It was intimate. It was invasive.

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