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The email subject lines alone are enough to make Genya sigh deeply.
RE: Formal Complaint – Painting Competition Results (Juniors Category)
RE: Concerns Regarding Fairness and External Assistance
RE: Mayor’s Son
By the time she reaches the third one, she has already rubbed the bridge of her nose raw, the skin prickling with irritation. She leans back in her creaky office chair, the fluorescent lights of the faculty room buzzing overhead like persistent flies. Outside, the autumn leaves swirl in the courtyard of Os Alta International School, a reminder that the season of change is upon them, though Genya wishes it would spare her inbox.
The competition is meant to be simple, merely a joyful affair. An annual art showcase hosted by the school, open to students aged nine to eleven. No extravagant prizes beyond certificates, a modest scholarship fund for art supplies, and the quiet pride of seeing one's work displayed in the sunlit atrium. Parents and children alike mingle at the exhibition, sipping fruit punch and exchanging compliments. This year, however, the atmosphere sours quickly.
Artem Lantsov wins. Decisively. Unanimously.
His painting, titled Home at Dusk, depicts a riverside house aglow with lamplight beneath a lavender sky streaked with fading daylight. The brushwork is soft yet intentional, and the colour gradation was controlled with a precision that most adults envy. There is emotion woven into every stroke, warmth that invites the viewer in, intimacy that whispers of family secrets, and a subtle longing that tugs at the heartstrings. It unsettles people once they realise it comes from a ten-year-old boy with dishevelled blonde hair and a shy smile.
That is when the whispers begin, slithering through the crowd like shadows lengthening at twilight.
“He didn’t paint that himself,” mutters one mother, her arms crossed tightly over her designer coat.
“Of course not. His father’s the mayor,” replies another, glancing sidelong at Artem’s canvas as if it offends her.
“You think someone like Nikolai Lantsov doesn’t have access to ghost artists? Money buys everything these days.”
“I heard the original artist is some anonymous genius. What’s her name… Koroleva? Yelena Koroleva? I heard her pieces fetch fortunes.”
Genya tries to mediate at first. She stands in the atrium, her red hair catching the light, and attempts to calmly address the gathering parents. “Children can be prodigiously talented,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring. “Art isn’t a zero-sum game. It’s about expression and growth.” She even displays the judges’ evaluation forms—anonymous sheets praising Artem’s originality and technical skill—to demonstrate transparency.
But the complaints from these moneybags pile into double digits, flooding her email and spilling into tense phone calls. Parents demand recounts, investigations, even disqualifications. And deep down, Genya herself notices the similarities she has tried to ignore. As she examines Artem’s painting late one evening in her empty classroom, she traces the contours with her eyes. The way the light dances on the water’s surface, the lived-in quality of the shadows, it does echo Yelena Koroleva’s style so profoundly. Koroleva, the reclusive painter whose works Genya has admired in exhibitions, though she and her husband David could never afford one. The essence is there, juvenile in Artem’s hands, but undeniably akin.
She does what her role as head organiser demands. She requests a meeting with Nikolai Lantsov.
Nikolai Lantsov arrives exactly on time, striding into the school with the effortless poise of a man who navigates boardrooms and ballots with equal finesse.
He looks irritatingly relaxed for someone summoned under suspicion, his tailored teal coat draped over one arm, a faint scar on the bridge of his nose catching the light. Genya watches him through the glass wall of the faculty office as he crouches down to speak quietly to Artem, who waits nearby with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Nikolai adjusts the boy’s scarf with gentle fingers, his voice low and affectionate. “Be good in the library, moy malchik. Read that book about the pirates we started.”
Artem nods solemnly, his eyes wide with trust, then breaks into a grin and hugs his father around the neck. “Yes, Papa. Don’t be long.”
Nikolai straightens, ruffling Artem’s hair one last time when the boy salutes him in mock seriousness, and turns toward Genya with a smile that has disarmed entire press conferences. Charming, disarming, and just a touch roguish.
“Ms. Safin,” he greets warmly, extending a gloved hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Genya nods and smiles with practiced politeness. “Nice to meet you too, sir,” she says as she gestures to the chair across from her desk that is cluttered with stacks of student sketches and half-empty coffee mugs. “Thank you for coming in such short notice, Mayor Lantsov.”
He sits, crossing his legs easily, his posture open and unthreatened. “All is well. Look, I’ll be honest. I’ve fielded calls about potholes, tax hikes, and even a neighbour accusing another of weaponising pigeons against their garden. So if this is about Artem’s handwriting again, I assure you, we’re working on the loops.”
Genya folds her hands on the desk, meeting his gaze steadily. “No, sir. It’s about… his painting, I’m afraid.”
That gets his full attention. The easy humour fades, replaced by a quiet intensity.
“I see.”
She slides a printed photograph of Artem’s winning piece across the desk. Nikolai glances at it, and something unmistakably tender flickers across his face. Genya sees a softening around the man’s eyes and a subtle curve of his lips.
“She stayed up late with him for that one,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his thumb brushing the edge of the photo.
Genya’s fingers tighten around her pen, curiosity piqued. “Mr. Lantsov… several parents have raised concerns. They believe Artem received outside help that exceeds what’s appropriate for a school competition—perhaps even a professional’s hand.”
Nikolai leans back, exhaling through his nose with a measured breath. “Let me guess. Because I’m wealthy. Or because I’m the mayor. Or both, I suppose.”
“Both,” Genya admits frankly, unwilling to sugarcoat it. “And because… his style is very similar to that of an artist named Yelena Koroleva.”
The name lands like a dropped glass in a silent room, shattering the calm.
Nikolai goes still, which frightens Genya at first. Except, he does not seem offended. He does not even look angry. Just thoughtful, his eyes narrowing slightly as if piecing together a puzzle, or calculating on how he should react.
Genya presses on carefully, trying to make her voice even. “I’ve seen her exhibitions in the capital. I couldn’t afford her work, but I remember it vividly. The light seems to breathe on the canvas. There is this softness of the edges, and the shadows feel… lived in, almost alive. Artem’s painting, as what the other parents and I see, carries the same DNA. It’s juvenile, yes, with smudges here and hesitations there. But… the core is undeniably similar.”
Silence stretches between them, thick and expectant. Genya’s heart pounded so loud she is afraid the mayor can hear it. She can’t think of anything worse than offending the man, and she can already imagine herself getting fired.
But then Nikolai laughs. Not sharply, not defensively, but in a… soft and fond way. The sound warms the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“Well,” he says, rubbing his jaw with a gloved hand, “I suppose that explains why she told me this might happen one day.”
Genya blinks, caught off guard. “She?”
He meets her gaze directly, his expression open and unguarded. “My wife.”
That revelation alone sends a ripple through Genya’s thoughts, but Nikolai isn’t finished. “Ms. Safin,” he continues, his voice calm and steady, “I didn’t hire a ghost painter. I didn’t pay anyone to fabricate my son’s talent. But I did allow him to learn from the person who paints in our home studio every morning, guiding him with patience and insight.”
Genya’s breath catches in her throat. “You don’t mean—”
He smiles, a genuine warmth lighting his features.
“Yes,” Nikolai says simply, his lips curving into a fond expression Genya has never seen on this polished politician. “Yelena Koroleva is my wife. Alina Lantsova.”
The Lantsov manor does not feel like a political stronghold, despite its grand stone facade and wrought-iron gates. It feels like a home—lived-in, vibrant, and infused with creativity.
Sunlight spills through tall, arched windows as Genya and her husband David step inside, invited for dinner the following evening at Nikolai’s insistence to “clear the air properly.” The foyer opens into a spacious living area where shelves brim with sketchbooks, half-finished canvases lean casually against walls, and jars of brushes soak in cloudy water on a side table. The air carries the faint, comforting scent of oil paint mingled with fresh rosemary from the herb garden visible through French doors.
Genya stands frozen just inside, her eyes drawn to a painting mounted on the far wall—a piece she knows by heart.
Quiet Devotion.
She has stood before it once in a crowded gallery, her heart pounding with admiration, imagining the enigmatic woman who created it. The canvas captures a solitary figure in prayer, bathed in ethereal light. Every brushstroke conveys quiet strength and vulnerability.
And now—
“Oh,” a gentle voice says from the hallway. “You must be Genya.”
Genya turns, her pulse quickening.
Alina Lantsova stands there, wearing a loose linen dress with paint smudges along the sleeves and hem. Her white hair is pulled into a low braid, a few strands escaping to frame her pretty face—high cheekbones, warm brown eyes that hold kindness, curiosity, and a hint of shyness. She wipes her hands on a cloth, stepping forward with an unassuming grace.
“I’m Alina,” she says, offering her hand. “Thank you for coming. Nikolai mentioned you’re quite the advocate for young artists.”
Genya shakes it automatically, her brain struggling to accept the fact that the legend herself is now standing right in front of her. “You’re… you’re—”
“Yes,” Alina confirms with a small, knowing smile, her eyes twinkling. “That one. Though I prefer Alina these days.”
Nikolai appears beside her then, his arm slipping around her waist with unconscious ease, a gesture born of years of grounded partnership. “I told you they’d recognise the brushwork straight away, solnyshko.”
Alina sighs, leaning into him slightly. “And I told you we should’ve at least switched to watercolours for his entries. But no, you insisted on authenticity.”
Before Nikolai can banter his wife’s words, Artem barrels into the room at that moment, waving a sketchpad triumphantly with cheeks flushing with excitement. “Mama! Look, I drew the garden like you showed me!”
Alina kneels instantly, her dress pooling around her, and takes the sketchpad with reverent care. “Let me see, malysh.” She studies it carefully, her finger tracing the lines without touching the paper. “This shadow here is perfect! You’ve captured how it softens at the edges. And I love the beautiful movements in the water. Maybe next time, we experiment with a lighter wash to make it shimmer more. What do you think?”
Artem beams, nodding eagerly. “Yes! Can we try now?”
“After dinner, okay?” Alina promises, standing and ruffling his hair as the boy nods his head in excitement. “Go wash up, malysh.”
Genya watches the exchange, her chest tightening with a mix of awe and understanding. This is no fraud. It’s mentorship, pure and profound.
Later, over dinner in the manor’s cosy dining room, the conversation flows naturally. They sit at a long oak table laden with Ravkan delicacies on top of it, such as beetroot salad, herb-roasted chicken, and fresh rye bread. Nikolai regales them with light-hearted tales of city hall mishaps, while Genya’s husband David discusses engineering puzzles that captivates Nikolai so much that it gives Genya hope that the mayor will take an interest in her husband’s work and appreciate his brilliance. Then Artem, that sweet little boy, chatters about school friends and his next art project.
But eventually, the heart of the matter surfaces. Alina sets down her fork, her expression turning thoughtful. “I stayed anonymous for a reason,” she explains softly, her gaze distant. “Years ago, before Nikolai and I married, fame nearly swallowed me whole. The exhibitions, the critics, the endless scrutiny, it overshadowed the joy of creating. So I stepped back, chose a pseudonym, and let the art speak for itself. Now, I mostly paint for myself… and for him.” She glances at Artem, who grins through a mouthful of food.
Genya nods, absorbing it all. “And the competition? The similarities in style…”
Nikolai leans forward, his tone earnest. “He painted it himself, Ms. Safin. Alina gave guidance, just like any devoted parent would—techniques, colour theory, and encouragement. But no one touched the canvas but Artem. We wouldn’t rob him of that accomplishment.”
Alina meets Genya’s gaze steadily, her voice firm yet vulnerable. “If you decide to revoke the award, I’ll understand. Fairness matters more than a certificate.”
Genya shakes her head immediately, a wave of conviction washing over her. “No. Absolutely not.” She looks at Artem, at his proud smile, at the unbridled joy radiating from him like sunlight on canvas. “There’s nothing unfair about a child learning from his mother, especially when his mother happens to be a master. It’s inspiring, really.”
Alina exhales in visible relief, her shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”
Nikolai grins at his wife. “I like her. Sharp eye, fair heart.”
“I gathered as much,” Alina replies dryly with a fond eye-roll that makes the mayor kiss her cheek.
As Genya prepares to leave later that evening, she pauses before one last painting in the hallway. It is an unfinished piece glowing with layers of gold and green, evoking fields under a rising sun.
“What’s this one?” she asks, drawn to its warmth.
Alina smiles, standing beside her. “That’s home. I’m still working on it, adding bits as life unfolds.”
Genya nods, understanding deepening within her.
She sees it clearly now.
Some art is destined for galleries, admired from afar.
Some are meant for the world, sparking debates and dreams.
And some, the precious priceless masterpieces, are meant to be passed from a mother’s hands to her child’s heart.