No one expected Corina Wissler to appear at this exhibition. The guests, all of them dressed formally, froze in astonishment. For a moment there was complete silence. In fact, Corina did not arrive—she was carried in. By a huge man with a somewhat foolish expression on his face. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt and looked completely out of place in the refined gallery. It was a small miracle that security had even let him in.

People knew that the painter Corina Wissler had, two months earlier, during a heavy party with alcohol and drugs, tumbled down the staircase of her luxurious villa and was now barely clinging to life in a hospital. Even her closest friends had not been allowed to visit her, for reasons unknown. And now she was appearing at an important social event. Her appearance was more than shocking.

The young woman was in a plaster body castl and, because of that, she wore no clothes—unless one counted the diaper as clothing. Only the toes of her right leg were visible. Her left leg was bare from the middle of the thigh downward, while above that there was something like a tight white corset enclosing her hips, waist, stomach, back, and chest. Her arms and head were free. She smiled, though it was clear she felt uneasy.

The large man had slung her over his shoulder like a mannequin from a clothing store. A strange sight. Many wondered why Corina had allowed herself to be carried in such a way. Some smirked, others lowered their heads in sympathy. The event gradually returned to its normal rhythm, yet curious glances kept darting toward Corina. And the man continued to carry her around as if there were nothing unusual about the situation. He had no difficulty doing so—he was strong, and she probably weighed no more than fifty-five kilograms with all the “packaging.”

Sometimes Corina had to roll her eyes sideways to examine the paintings that interested her—the man didn’t always realize he should turn her toward them.

People stared at her bare shoulders and exquisite face. Her hair looked good—black and glossy—and with every sharper movement it swayed beside her delicate cheekbones. The strands of her bangs almost reached her eyes.

Corina muttered something, and the man, blushing slightly, laid her down on a couch. He tried to make her comfortable, arranging her body in a suitable position and covering her with a blanket. Then she dismissed him with a careless gesture that carried a hint of royal authority.

One of her friends approached and pushed a glass of champagne into her hands.

“How are you, darling? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

She was a blonde, bony woman in an elegant blue dress. Her gray eyes looked cold, faintly mocking.

“Well ... you see,” Corina replied, trying to produce a smile. It didn’t work very well.

“I’m so sorry. I meant to visit you in the hospital, but I heard you didn’t want to see anyone, so...”

“I wasn’t in the mood for visitors.”

“What exactly happened? When you fell down the stairs I was outside in the garden.”

“I simply tripped and fell.”

“It seemed to me you were a bit drunk...”

“I don’t feel like talking about that now, Nora.”

“I understand. Are you any better?”

“The fractures in my thigh and pelvis are healing slowly, unfortunately. But at least it doesn’t hurt the way it did in the beginning.”

“I’m very glad you came to the exhibition. I doubt I’d have dared if I looked like that,” the blonde woman smirked, tapping with her finger the plaster bulges hiding Corina’s breasts.

“Well ... I made the effort.”

“Who’s your escort? I don’t recognize him.”