My Cruel Professor Shredded My Only Hope, Then The Louvre Director Appeared

The Night of the Storm

The NICU was a sanctuary of blue light and rhythmic beeping, a stark contrast to the violent thunderstorm thrashing against the hospital windows. I, Maya Chen, stood by my daughter’s incubator, my hands stained with the remnants of my last creation. I was exhausted, my spirit frayed like the edges of my hoodie, yet I felt a flicker of hope. That painting, The Neonatal Horizon, was more than oil on linen; it was the bridge to my daughter’s future.

Unrefined amateur trash, Maya, just like your pathetic little life.

The voice belonged to Professor Armand Dubois, a man whose arrogance was as sharp as his tailored coat. With a sickening tear, he shredded the canvas. My heart stopped. The fabric, representing months of sleepless nights and absolute devotion, lay in ruins on the wet floor. Dubois smirked, expecting me to crumble. I was paralyzed, my breath hitching as I pressed my palm against the incubator glass, praying my daughter wouldn't feel the sudden chill of my despair. I whispered, That painting was her only chance. He didn't care. He was a predator, and I was his wounded prey.