Chapter2 Can You Restore Oil Paintings?

Sophia's POV

Everyone froze in shock, looking toward the voice. A tall man was standing protectively in front of me.

I was stunned too. The man in front of me looked about twenty-five or twenty-six, over 6 feet tall, wearing a simple dark shirt and matching pants. His collar was casually unbuttoned, showing his collarbone.

His face was strikingly handsome, with sharp features and piercing pale blue eyes full of intensity. A slight smirk played at the corner of his mouth, and his whole presence screamed "don't mess with me."

"Who are you? How dare you cause trouble at my Smith Group! Security! Call security and have this man arrested!" Gretl finally snapped out of it, her face flushed red as she screamed hysterically.

The man let go and completely ignored her, turning to look at me instead.

"Sophia Smith?" He raised an eyebrow, his tone softening a bit.

I nodded, confused.

His clothes looked simple, but I recognized them as top-tier Italian luxury custom pieces. That shirt alone was worth six figures. And when he raised his hand, I caught a glimpse of a subtle pattern on his cuff—the mark of a Swiss watchmaker that only accepts inherited clients.

Didn't they say my biological father was disabled, my mother unemployed, and the family poor? This didn't look right at all.

As I was puzzling over this, the man continued, "I'm Oliver Spencer, your third brother. Mom sent me to bring you home."

Before I could respond, Vivian's eyes flickered as she quickly looked Oliver up and down.

"Sophia, is this your brother from that side?" Her tone seemed concerned but carried a hint of contempt.

Oliver caught it but didn't even glance at her. He grabbed my hand, ready to leave.

"Come on, let's go home. This place stinks. Even one more second here makes me sick!"

Just then, four or five security guards rushed out from the stairwell, holding rubber batons.

Gretl perked up, pointing at Oliver and shrieking orders, "That's him! He broke into the company and assaulted people! Grab him!"

The guards quickly surrounded us. Oliver didn't even turn around. He raised his hand, grabbed a wrist, and threw the first guard about six feet away.

The others rushed him at once. He kicked one in the side of the knee, then twisted another's hand backward, bending the guard's wrist at an unnatural angle.

In less than ten seconds, all five guards were on the ground groaning in pain.

The hallway fell dead silent.

Oliver walked over to me and raised an eyebrow. "How was that? Pretty cool, right? Like Iron Man?"

Then he turned to look at Gretl, his eyes instantly cold, though his lips still curved in a mocking smile.

"Mrs. Smith, if I hit women, you'd be lying on the ground with them right now."

Gretl's face went pale, her lips trembling. She was too scared to say a word.

Vivian rushed to Gretl's side in tears, looking at me accusingly with watery eyes. "Sophia! How can you let your brother hurt people like this? Look what you've done to Mom!"

"This is outrageous! I'm calling the police! I'm reporting this!" Carl's face turned dark with anger as he pulled out his phone.

I looked at my brother, my expression somewhat helpless, and grabbed his hand. "Let's go. No point wasting time on people who don't matter."

I held on tight.

Oliver let me pull him along as we walked through the silent hallway and into the elevator.

Just before the elevator doors closed, Carl finally reacted. "Sophia! If you walk out that door today, don't ever think about coming back! The Smith family won't recognize you anymore!"

I pressed the close button.

"Don't worry," my voice came out clear and cold as ice, "I'm the one throwing away the Smith family trash."

When we got to the first-floor lobby, I immediately spotted the black motorcycle parked at the entrance.

The body had clean lines with no flashy decorations, and there were mud spots on the tires.

Someone who didn't know better might not notice.

But I recognized it instantly—this was one of only twenty motorcycles sold globally, each one a unique work of art. This bike cost as much as a house in downtown Washington.

"Is this your bike?" I turned to Oliver.

Wasn't the Spencer family supposed to be a poor household in some small town? How was my brother wearing luxury clothes and riding an expensive bike?

Oliver handed me a helmet as his answer. "Get on. Let's go home."

I put the helmet on and got on the back seat. My cool voice came through the helmet, "I need to go somewhere first."

"Where?"

"You'll know when we get there."

Seeing I didn't want to say more, Oliver didn't push it. He got on the bike and started the engine.

The bike sped away from Smith Tower. Twenty minutes later, it stopped at the side entrance of the National Gallery of Art.

Oliver took off his helmet and looked at the imposing building with a strange expression. "What are you doing here?"

"Saying hello to an old friend." I got off and handed him back the helmet. "I might not get another chance."

I entered through the side door like I knew the place, walking through a staff corridor.

Oliver followed behind me, his eyes sweeping over the valuable reproduction paintings on the walls before settling on my back, growing more curious.

When we reached the curator's office, I knocked on the door.

"Come in."

I pushed open the door to find an elderly man with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses looking at documents.

When he looked up and saw me, his eyes lit up. He immediately put down his papers and stood up. "Master Sophia? What brings you here?"

"Curator Clark." I walked in, my tone polite. "I came to tell you that I probably won't be able to continue participating in the antique oil painting restoration work."

The smile froze on Curator Clark's face, and his brow furrowed. "Why? If you're not satisfied with the compensation, we can negotiate."

He walked around his desk, his tone somewhat urgent. "Master Sophia, you know there are only a handful of people in the country who can handle seventeenth-century Dutch oil paintings. You're the best among them. As long as you're willing to take it on, name your terms."

Oliver, standing by the door, raised his eyebrow almost imperceptibly.

"Antique oil painting restoration? Seventeenth-century Dutch oil paintings?"

"My sister, aren't you the design director at Smith Group? You can do this too?"

I glanced at Oliver but didn't answer his questions.

I continued speaking to the curator. "It's not about that." I shook my head, my tone calm. "I'll probably be leaving Washington soon, so it won't be convenient to come here regularly."

The Spencer family was in a town several hundred miles from Washington. Coming back wouldn't be so easy.

Curator Clark's face showed regret, and he was about to say something when the office door was suddenly knocked on urgently.

A young staff member burst in, out of breath. "Clark, Mr. Si is here! He brought a painting, says it's a national treasure, and specifically asked for Master Sophia to restore it. He's already in the restoration room."