I nod that I do, realizing that I’ve made him unhappy by questioning his competence. I’ve disrespected him. He is, after all, our analyst. He knows what’s best.
“Lennon Rose is lucky to have you helping her,” I say, hating his disapproval. Lennon Rose was openly crying, troubled. Anton is going to fix that. I’m grateful.
“Just remember,” Anton says earnestly. “You’re all priceless to me. Beautiful works of art. I’ll always protect you, Mena. Always.”
I thank Anton for his words and his kindness.
“Now head back inside,” he says. “I’m sure there are plenty of investors waiting to meet you.”
I do as I’m told and walk into the party. But I’m barely three steps into the room before the man who flashed his teeth at me earlier comes over with a bottle of beer dangling between his fingers. The flush on his cheeks tells me he’s inebriated.
“Hello,” I say. He drags his eyes over my gown before showing me his teeth again.
“Well, hello,” he responds. “Philomena, is it?”
“Yes.” I hold out my hand, and he brings it to his mouth, placing his damp lips against my knuckles. “And you are?” I ask.
“Interested,” he says, still holding my hand to his mouth. It’s inappropriate, but as I tug my hand back, he grips tighter. I dart my eyes around quickly, but the only person who notices me is Leandra. She stares back as if ready to judge my behavior.
I don’t want to be rude to an investor.
“And your name?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Pleasant.
“Steven Kohl,” he says, finally dropping my hand. I quickly clasp my fingers behind my back, out of his reach. He takes a step closer to me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kohl,” I say.
He looks me over again, and then smiles again. “It’s funny,” he says. “I can actually hear that you’re full of shit. They’ve trained you well. Very well-rounded, indeed.” Only when he says it, he glances at my breasts.
I think about the lessons in class, that even with this man acting improperly, it’s up to me to keep up the decorum. Manage his behavior by appeasing him, not antagonizing.
“And are you thinking of bringing a girl to Innovations Academy, Mr. Kohl?” I ask, trying to find a conversation topic. He laughs again and sloppily drinks from his beer bottle.
“I’m going to invest directly,” he says. “I’m hoping you’re available.”
“Available for what?” I ask, confused. But he only stares his response, as if he enjoys not telling me.
There’s a flash of movement behind him, and suddenly another man steps between us. Winston Weeks, a major investor in Innovations Academy. The ice in his short glass rattles as he takes a sip. Mr. Kohl falls back a step when Winston Weeks turns to him.
“How is your wife, Mr. Kohl?” Mr. Weeks asks smoothly. “I recently attended her gallery to thank her for her investment; her art is exquisite. Have you found work yet?”
Steven Kohl stares at him, not exactly offended by the question, but... threatened? Whatever it is, Mr. Kohl takes another messy drink from his beer, the liquid spilling off his chin, before murmuring a goodbye and walking away. When he’s gone, Mr. Weeks turns to me.
Winston Weeks is in his early thirties, the sort of handsome that comes with power—sharp suit; expensive haircut; straight, white veneers. Although we’ve never had a private conversation, I’ve met him at open houses before, watched him make conversation with the guests. Rarely with the girls.
“Hello, Mr. Weeks,” I say, smiling politely. “It’s nice to see you again.” I offer my hand, surprised when he shakes it instead of kissing it. It occurs to me that I prefer this greeting, even if it’s unusual.
“It’s nice to see you, as well, Philomena,” he says. He offers his arm. “Will you accompany me to the bar? I seem to be dry.” He holds up his glass of ice to indicate he needs another drink.
“Of course.” I take his elbow and walk with him. He nods at several people along the way, each of them seeming impressed by his presence. In awe.
I drop his arm as he orders his drink and take a moment to study him, wondering why the guests are so enamored by him. Or intimidated—I’m not sure.
As Mr. Weeks waits for the bartender to pour his drink, he turns to me. “I’ve been thinking about increasing my investment, Philomena,” he says. “I’m working toward opening a school of my own.” The drink is set in front of him, and he watches my eyes over his glass as he takes a sip.
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Weeks,” I say. “Innovations has a great education model. I recommend it.”
He chuckles softly. “Yes, I know.” Before the bartender walks away, Mr. Weeks requests a glass of red wine. When it arrives, he sets it in front of me and then looks away and whistles, like he has no idea how it got there.
