Something cold crawls up my spine.
He’s good. He’s always been good at this—making me doubt myself, making his version of reality sound so reasonable that I can’t remember what I actually wanted.
“No, you’re trying to manipulate me into coming back because you're terrified of losing your fifteen percent.”
Albert is close enough that I can smell his cologne. It makes my stomach turn. “That’s called a career, Jessie. That’s called being a professional.”
“No. That’s called being a product.”
Something flickers in Albert’s expression—a crack in the concerned mentor facade. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I? You told me to make my sunsets ‘more blue.’ To soften my edges. To paint what collectors expect instead of what I actually see.” My voice is rising, but I don’t care.
Behind me, Tank shifts.
I feel his presence like a held breath.
Don’t, I think.Let me handle this.
I don’t know if Tank can read minds, but he doesn’t move forward.
I pin Albert with my gaze and continue. “You taught me that my instincts were wrong, that my vision needed ‘refinement,’ that success meant becoming whatever the highest bidder wanted me to be.”
“I taught you how to build a sustainable career?—”
“You taught me how to disappear.” I take a step toward him.
Surprise flickers across his face. The first hint that he’s losing control of this conversation.
“Every time I had an original idea, you talked me out of it. Every time I wanted to take a risk, you told me it wouldn’t sell. And I believed you, Albert. For five years, I believed you. That’s on me.”
“Jessie—”
“You’re fired.”
The words hang in the air between us.
His mouth opens. Closes. For a long moment, he stares at me like I’ve spoken a foreign language.
“Excuse me?”
“Fired. Done. I’m not your client anymore.” The words come out steady, even though my heart is hammering. “I’m not your project. I’m not your meal ticket. And I’m definitely not your charity case who needs to be rescued from her own decisions.”
“You’re making a huge mistake.” The concern mask is slipping now, revealing something uglier underneath. “You think you can do this without me? You think galleries will take your calls? Collectors will remember your name? Imadeyou, Jessie?—”
“You didn’t make anything.” I’m shaking, but my voice is stronger than it’s ever been. “You found someone with talent and figured out how to profit from it. That’s not making. That’s mining.”
“This is insane.” He’s stepping backward now, retreating toward his rental car. “You’ll regret this. When this little...flingfallsapart, when reality sets in, you’ll come crawling back. And I might not be there to help you stand.”
He opens his mouth, probably to deliver some parting shot, some final manipulation?—
And Tank clears his throat.
Just that. One sound. But Albert looks past me to the six-foot-five mountain of barely restrained protectiveness, and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat.
“The lady said you’re fired,” Tank says, his voice calm and pleasant in a way that’s somehow more threatening than anger. “Might want to leave before I help you understand what that means.”
“This is—you can’t—” Albert sputters, looking between us. “Jessie, you’re making a huge mistake. You’ll fail without me, and when you do?—”
