“Sebastian, this is my new client, Mr. Ben McFarlane the Third,” I said tightly. “Ben, this is Sebastian Wright.”
Their handshake was quick, perfunctory.
“Nice to meet you,” Sebastian said, his tone flat. “Jesse, can I talk to you for a moment?”
Ben still held my hand, unfazed.
“I’m sorry, Sebastian, it’ll have to wait,” I said smoothly, pivoting before anger cracked through my voice. “I promisedBen a tour.” I leaned into Ben with a smile. “Let me offer you a drink first.”
I guided him toward the refreshment table, Sebastian’s gaze boring into my back. Let him watch. Tonight, my focus was on the client who valued me, not the man who had lied.
“Was that your…?” Ben began.
“Neighbor,” I cut in before he could finish, my tone crisp. “Now, what’ll it be? Water, soda, champagne?”
“I think this occasion deserves a toast. Don’t you?” His smile gleamed, impeccable teeth and all.
I matched it, handing him a glass of champagne and taking one for myself.
He lifted his flute. “To the most talented woman I know. May you bring all my dreams to life.”
The words struck deep, like balm over raw skin. I tapped my glass lightly against his.
“I’ll do my best.”
We clinked glasses and sipped the cool, frothy champagne.
Ben, ever the gentleman, offered me his arm. “Shall we?”
I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow and led him toward the seasons’ section. As we moved through the gallery, I explained the stories behind each collection. He listened intently, pausing often to comment on details that caught his eye. I stored away his preferences, already weaving them into ideas for the commission at his house.
Everywhere I looked, red dots covered my work. Each one should have been a triumph, but instead, the sight hollowed me out. Who had really bought them? Friends of Sebastian’s? Colleagues he’d strong-armed? Each dot felt less like validation and more like a reminder that my success wasn’t truly mine. My chest tightened with an ache of self-doubt so sharp it nearly stole my breath.
Then Ben stopped short, his gaze riveted on the largest painting in the center of the gallery—the piece I’d painted to represent the whole exhibit.
“Oh, my,” he breathed. “This is magnificent. Please tell me it’s still for sale.”
A voice behind me cut through like a blade.
“It’s not for sale anymore.”
I turned, my pulse lurching. Sebastian stood there, rigid, his voice cool and resolute.
Malcom appeared at his side, slipping discreetly toward the canvas. Without a word, he placed a red dot in the corner.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Malcom said smoothly, addressing Ben. “Mr. Wright has purchased this painting.”
My jaw went slack, but I forced myself to lift the glass to my lips and take a measured sip. Rage churned beneath my composure. Why? Why would Sebastian buy this piece? To stake a claim? To buy back my affection? For one treacherous second, a voice whispered that maybe it meant he truly valued my art. But the anger inside me crushed that thought before it could grow.
Ben’s expression cooled into polite steel. “I’m sure we can settle this. Is there a bidding opportunity?”
Malcom folded his hands, clearly uneasy. “I’m afraid not, sir. There’s a fixed price—first come, first served.”
Ben looked ready to press the matter. Sebastian’s jaw was locked so tightly I could see the cords of muscle straining beneath his skin.
I couldn’t let this escalate.
I slipped my hand around Ben’s arm, my tone light, playful. “Ben, don’t worry. I’ll fill your house with paintings even more magnificent than this one. Besides…” I forced a grin. “I think I know just the piece for you, and it’s still available. Come on.”
