“And if you see anything else… You come directly to me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Clara rose unsteadily from the chair.
Burton watched her all the way to the door.
And only after she disappeared into the blue mountain dusk did the look finally settle fully onto his face.
Fear.
1
RiNo Arts District — Denver
Izzy:If I have to hear the word “rebrand” one more time, I’m setting this place on fire.
Caitlin:Please don’t burn down your gallery. It looks beautiful.
Izzy snorted, thumb hovering over her phone as she stood beneath the exposed brick archway that had once felt like the beginning of everything. A couple walking past the doorway glanced in; the woman’s eyes did a quick, involuntary sweep from Izzy’s sharp cheekbones to her heels, the kind of fast female assessment she’d grown up with. Beautiful. Tailored. Trouble.
Industrial pendant lights glowed warm over polished concrete floors. Abstract canvases in jewel tones lined the walls. Wine glasses chimed. Laughter rose and fell like applause on cue. Beneath it all, the space smelled of expensive perfume and cold air from the overworked AC.
On the surface, opening night looked exactly the way it always had.
But it wasn’t hers anymore.
Izzy:He wants “approachable.”
Izzy:He wants “commercial.”
Izzy:He wants landscapes with cows.
Caitlin:You like cows.
Izzy:Not framed in gold leaf with a $12,000 price tag because some hedge fund manager thinks rustic sells.
She hit send hard enough that her thumb stung.
A laughing emoji popped up almost immediately, then:
Caitlin:You sound tired.
Tired.
That was one word for it. So was done.
Izzy leaned her shoulder against the brick and watched the new owner make his rounds like a politician at a fundraiser.
Marcus Halpern. Wealthy. Polished. Calculating.
He didn’t look at brushwork, composition, or the way a piece could reach in and twist a person open. He looked at the wall as if it were a spreadsheet with better lighting. Her nonna would’ve called him a man who knew every price tag and nothing about a soul.
Two weeks ago, he’d signed papers, bought controlling interest in the gallery, and shaken her hand with a smile that felt like a verdict. Promised expansion, growth. “Fresh energy.”
What he meant was that people who didn’t know a damn thing about art—or the artists who’d trusted her—were now in charge.
He’d already pulled two emerging painters off the walls, replacing them with a Western series he said would “sell better to second-home buyers.” Broad skies, generic mountains, glossy, over-saturated cows placed exactly where a designer would want them to balance a sofa. He’d moved her office to the back, as if she were part of the inventory. He paused in doorways to say things like, You’ve done a lovely job with atmosphere—as if she’d been arranging throw pillows instead of building careers.
