I adjust my pocket square—three points of crimson silk—and prepare to hunt in plain sight.
But as I knot my tie, I find myself thinking about that artist Adrian keeps mentioning—Amelia Stone. Beneath my practiced movements, a genuine curiosity stirs.
Adrian showed me photos of her work last week. Dark, layered canvases with urban landscapes distorted into something both familiar and alien. Streets twisted into celestial patterns, city lights forming constellations that only reveal themselves when you step back and truly look.
“She sees what most people miss,” Adrian had said, his fingers still red with Reynolds’ blood as he scrolled through the images on his phone. “Like us, but she transforms it into something beautiful instead of...” He’d trailed off, gesturing at his chocolate molds.
I understand what he meant. We notice the hidden truths—the corruption beneath polished veneers, the rot beneath expensive cologne. We see the predators masquerading as protectors, the monsters in tailored suits. But where we excise these cancers from society, preserving their hollow shells as reminders, this woman transforms her vision into art that others can appreciate without understanding its full meaning.
My reflection stares back at me. Tonight, I’ll see her work in person. Might even meet the artist herself. There’s something intriguing about standing before canvases that reveal one world to casual observers and another entirely different reality to those with eyes trained to see the patterns.
I adjust my cufflinks, wondering whether Amelia Stone would recognize what I am if we came face to face. Would she see the careful architecture of my public persona? Would something in her detect the predator beneath my false smile?
Perhaps that’s what draws Adrian to her work—the thrill of recognition without discovery. The sense of kinship with someone who transforms darkness instead of dwelling in it.
I arrive exactly one hour after the gallery opening started—never first, never last, always when the crowd has formed, but the energy hasn’t peaked. The Ellington Gallery gleams under carefully positioned lighting, eachfixture highlighting the artwork while flattering its viewers. Strategic.
With practiced ease, I accept a flute of mediocre champagne from a passing server. The sommelier in me notes its excessive sugar content—designed to please unrefined palates while maintaining the illusion of luxury. I scan the room, categorizing the attendees.
There’s the gray-haired venture capitalist who collects contemporary art as a tax shelter. The socialite in Valentino who attends openings to be photographed, not to appreciate the art. The young tech millionaire nods sagely at a canvas he’ll hire someone else to understand for him. Typical art patrons—wealthy, educated, performatively cultured. They sip wine and murmur appreciatively while understanding nothing.
Then I see her.
I don’t know how I know it’s the artist, but I do. Amelia Stone moves through the crowd like electricity seeking ground—crackling with barely contained nervous energy that comes in quick bursts. Her hands, I notice immediately, bear traces of her work—smudges of indigo beneath the fingernails, a streak of burnt sienna at the wrist that soap couldn’t quite remove. Those paint-stained hands gesture animatedly as she explains a piece to a silver-haired collector whose vacant eyes suggest his interest lies elsewhere.
Unlike the polished dolls circulating the room, she’s beautiful in an unconventional way—sharp features that catch the light at unexpected angles, jawline defined enough to cast shadows. But it’s her eyes that capture my attention—hazel, intense, moving constantly as if cataloging everything simultaneously. Theyreflect the chaos of someone whose brain moves faster than the world around her.
She wears a vintage dress the color of oxidized copper, clearly chosen for comfort rather than trend, paired with practical boots rather than the stilettos that decorate most female feet here. Her hair escapes whatever attempt was made to contain it, strawberry blonde tendrils framing her face like brushstrokes.
I find myself moving closer, drawn not by predatory instinct but by genuine curiosity. There’s something raw about her presence—authentic in a room full of careful fabrications.
I navigate the crowd, sipping the underwhelming champagne while studying Amelia Stone’s work. The Urban Cosmos series reveals itself canvas by canvas—each one more intriguing than the last. Six pieces form a narrative of city and sky merged in impossible ways, the artist transforming concrete and steel into celestial bodies.
But it’s the centerpiece that stops me cold. The seventh canvas, somehow finished. A cityscape that shouldn’t work—geometric buildings housing impossible night skies, constellations hidden in window patterns, and in the very center, barely visible unless you know to look: a predator’s eyes watching from the darkness. She sees it. She actually fucking sees it. The thing that lurks beneath civilization’s veneer.
My breath catches. I take an involuntary step closer, studying the subtle brushstrokes that created those eyes. They aren’t metaphorical or abstract—they’re knowing and patient. The eyes of something that waits in shadows, watching the oblivious world pass by.
The collector beside me prattles abouturban alienationandpost-modern detachment, missing entirely what’s rightbefore him. But I see it clearly—the predator concealed within the urban landscape, camouflaged so skillfully that most viewers walk past without feeling its gaze.
Just as they walk past me at this very moment.
A chill travels up my spine, not from fear but recognition. This woman with paint-stained hands has captured something essential about the world—about those of us who move through it unseen by choice.
I catch Adrian’s eye across the room and nod. His friend was right. Perhaps like Maya, her friend, Amelia is also special. She doesn’t just arrange pigments on canvas; she reveals truths others can’t perceive. She’s painted what we are—not the monstrous caricatures laypeople imagine, but the patient watchers, the careful observers hidden in plain sight among ordinary people.
8
AMELIA
The gallery is packed, which should make me happy, but Adrian’s presence puts me on edge. He’s set up his chocolate display directly beneathCrimson Constellation—my largest canvas, the one that took months to complete. A swirling mass of reds and blacks that I’d painted in a fugue state, barely remembering half the brushstrokes.
Watching him arrange those truffles, I can’t stop thinking about Maya’s description at Thai Palace three weeks ago:hollow, soulless, tasting of fear. And something else—somethingpersonal.
I circle the room, smiling at potential buyers, explaining technique and vision while my brain tracks six different things at once.
The elderly couple by canvas three needs attention. Red dot on canvas five—sold! Maya’s by the window with Adrian. His hand just touched her lower back. She didn’t pull away. Focus, Amelia. The collector in the corner is interested in—did I remember to email that supplier about gesso? No, stop, focus on the NOW?—
“This dark chocolate ganache pairs beautifully with the Cabernet,” Adrian’s voice cuts through my scattered thoughts. His presentation is theatrical. “Note how the bitter notes enhance the wine’s complexity.”
