Silas’s fingers brush my lower back as we move toward the bar. “That conversation matters more than months of hard work. He’ll remember you now, and he has a lot of sway in the art world.”
I glance up at him. “Thank you.”
“You proved yourself.” He signals the bartender. “I just got you the introduction.”
The bartender pours champagne, and Silas hands me a glass. I take a slow drink, letting the realization settle. He gave me access. But I did all the work.
For the first time tonight, I don’t feel like just a decoration.
The evening becomes a blur of handshakes, and when the gala attendees learn that I intern at the museum, they ask questions about art history, authentication practices, and the museum’s acquisition strategy.
These influential people are looking tomefor expertise. Not Silas.
No one dismisses me. No one treats me like arm candy. I feel like I belong.
Not because of Silas. Because I earned it.
Eventually, a major donor pulls Silas into a conversation that has nothing to do with art. I can tell it’s going to take a while.
I touch his arm briefly. “I’m going to look at the new exhibition.”
He nods. “I’ll find you.”
I slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the contemporary wing. The new installation has been something I’ve been excited about for weeks—a series of abstract pieces by an emerging artist.
The gallery is quieter here—fewer people. I stop in front of a canvas that’s mostly red and black, layered so thick with paint that I can see the texture from where I stand.
“Striking, isn’t it?”
I turn.
A man in his fifties stands there in a tailored suit. I don’t recognize him, but he carries himself like someone important.
“It is.” I keep my response neutral. “The artist doesn’t hold back.”
He steps closer, studying the painting. “No restraint. I like that.”
We talk about the piece for a few minutes. He’s knowledgeable and asks good questions. I relax into the conversation, treating it like networking.
He introduces himself. Donald Moriano. Major collector.
I tell him my name. Nothing else.
His eyes sweep over me. “Are you in the art world?”
“I’m finishing an internship here.”
“Ah.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And are you here with anyone tonight?”
My spine straightens. “Yes.”
He smiles wider. “Well, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I stole you away for one drink.”
Something in his posture changes, and now he’s standing closer to me than necessary.
“Thank you, but I’m not interested.”
He doesn’t step back. “You seem to know a lot about art. That’s impressive for an intern.”
