By the time Lila bursts back in carrying a paper bag that smells like fried food and a scowling man with a soft briefcase, my heart rate has decided to act like a person’s and not a trapped bird’s.
“This is Mateo,” she announces, depositing the bag on the table and the man in the chair my bag usually occupies. “He is my cousin, which means he loves me more than he likes you. He read your contract and did a frown at Clause Three that could wither ivy. Mateo, this is the artist we’re shepherding through a hedge maze.”
Mateo offers a hand I can take or ignore. I take it because hands are proof of good faith. His grip is careful; his eyes are the kind that have lived with both man’s law and family gossip. “The addendum you proposed is going to make them itchy,” he says without preface. “Good. If they refuse, they’re lying about collaboration. If they accept, they’ll try to work around it. We will close the holes.”
“You saywelike you’re coming,” I say.
He shrugs. “I have nothing better to do than stop a foundation from thinking reasonable means whenever we feel like it. Also, Lila threatened to share a childhood photo I would prefer remain buried.”
“He’s very small, very naked, and very angry about a birthday hat,” Lila supplies. “Don’t test me.”
“Thank you,” I say, because whatever else today becomes, at least I’ll have a person in the room who will stab a sentence if it tries to rob me.
We eat over the invitation like tacticians over a map. Lila rips a fried lump in half and tucks one into my hand. “You’re pale,” she says. “Protein.”
“Oil,” Mateo corrects. He thumbs through a printed copy of the NDA that looks like it’s been living in a pocket of his mind since law school. “If they tell youno photosonce, nod. If theytell you twice, ask why. If they tell you three times, leave. Three times means there’s something on a wall they forgot to take down, and I don’t want you carrying their negligence in your bag.”
“We’re not leaving,” Lila says. “We’re treating this like a bank visit. In. Out. Smile at the cameras outside. Spit in the ones inside when no one’s looking.”
“Game on,” I whisper.
I breathe once more and give the city back its air. “Your move, Mr. Ward,” I say under my breath, the way you tell a room you know what you’re doing even when the room is owned by a man who thinks he knows it better.
Chapter 18 – Cassian
The penthouse is all soft shadow and one warm island of light—the desk lamp angled down so the rest of the room recedes. Her email sits open like a pulse under the glass of the tablet:
Subject:Re: Artist Residency Pilot — Acceptance & Conditions
…I am prepared to accept in principle,
subject to confirmation of the following conditions…
1) I will be accompanied by my own assistant (Lila Gomez)…
2) Any work created by me remains my sole property…
3) Safety review will not be used to delay or cancel absent a clearly articulated, time-bound risk…
4) No press or social media content…
5) I will not travel alone…
I read it twice and let the curve in my mouth happen. She thinks she’s drawing lines. She is. People who survive draw with rulers; they’ve earned the right to straight edges. I prefer patients who argue before they consent. They heal better. They don’t mistake relief for safety. Fighting the medication keeps the heart honest.
Bring your friend. Good. Witnesses make submission sweeter, and they make consent visible in a way transcripts do not. Ownership of her work? Of course. I have no interest in owning her canvases. I’m after the context. Clause #3 reads like a fuse:time-bound risk in writing. Legal will itch. We’ll rewrite the rash down to something that looks like anegotiated compromise and functions like what it always was—our discretion, shaped into the language she can tolerate.
I pinch to zoom the lines where she is most herself. The tone is formal, but the rhythm is hers: even, deliberate, unafraid to putnon-negotiablein black where men can see it. The leather folio is under my hand before I think to reach for it.Residency Houseembossed along the spine, paper inside with corners that know where they belong. Floor plans. Lists. Protocols. The contingencies I write when I’m at my best and my worst—which, in my case, are the same thing more often than I like to admit.
The pen I keep for decisions is heavy, and balanced. I uncap it, draw a bracket aroundGuest Wing East: Room 3, and write her name once, carefully. The letters sit there with the ease of a diagnosis you know is right but still say aloud to make it real.
The whiskey warms my hand when I pick it up. I bring it to my mouth and don’t drink because I want the want and not the dull. I set it back down, exact placement, the base kissing the ring on the blotter.
The phone vibrates against the leather with the particular insistence of Mara’s caller ID. I tap accept and put her on speaker. The lamp hum, the rain, and the quiet all make a low room for unvarnished sentences.
“You saw her email,” she says. She doesn’t waste time with greetings.
“I did. She’ll bring the friend. Fine. Ownership stays hers. Fine. #3—legal will try to sand it until it reflects us. Don’t let them remove the wordstime-boundorin writing.We need her to believe in the teeth.”
