“Get out. This is pitiful.” He doesn’t even look at him when he says it.
One of Alistair’s giant guards materializes in the doorway. The artist deflates, unhooks his painting, and walks out, red-faced and shaking. The door closes on his retreat, and the room exhales in one quiet sigh. My shoulders stay locked.
Alistair tilts his head as he approaches me, eyes narrowing as he takes in my very white, very empty canvas.
“Alistair!” I say, forcing a smile. “So glad you came down. I know what you’re thinking.”
“Kael.” He leans in for a hug, and fuck it—I hug that billionaire like he’s my long-lost nana, as tight as he’ll tolerate. His breath warms my neck before he presses a quick kiss there. “I was just telling someone about that piece you did with the coffee cup.”
That single image had doubled my followers. Pride swells up on instinct, getting stuck halfway until I choke on air.
He pulls back, face scrunched while I cough, trying to conjure substance out of nothing.
“This is… very different,” I manage.
“Obviously,” he says, unimpressed. Of course he’s not impressed!
“It may look blank,” I begin, my voice wobbling. “And it is. But it’s asking the viewer to appreciate what’s inside the void, the woven cotton, the machine looms, the lumber.” He lets me ramble, his expression unreadable. “It’s stretched close to breaking, like—well, like modern art.” I grab for something, anything. “It’s a new movement. Futurist Illusionism.”
A grin blooms on Alistair’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he giggles. “It is something,” he says, laughter fading. “Future… what did you call it?”
“Futurist Illusionism,” I repeat, almost whispering. Stupid. So stupid. “It’s a new movement. I thought it would be… funny.”
“Ah.” His gaze slides past my canvas to Marcus, conveniently stationed nearby. “And where did it come from?”
A genuine question? A test? My half-baked plan collapses in my hands. Do I lie? Invent a manifesto?
Marcus, my savior, answers for me. “Local movement. They do… retreats.” He steps into Alistair’s orbit, and attention follows the line of his naked torso far more easily than it ever would an empty canvas.
“Marcus!” Alistair’s hand lands on his bare shoulder, then glides down his chest, lingering there as he leaves me behind. Those abs just saved my life. I could kiss them, but not even they’ll keep me here a second longer than I have to. “And look what you’ve brought!”
Alistair doesn’t spare me another glance, hanging on Marcus while he makes his way through the last few artists.
“You all never cease to impress,” Alistair says.
“Thank you,” we echo, overlapping, followed by a chorus of “We owe you so much.”
“Aw. I’m simply glad to see real art in this city. Now, please, enjoy yourselves!” He flutters a dismissive hand, and we offer up a round of forced applause.
“Marcus? Could I have a quick word with you? In private?”
Marcus presses a hand to his bare chest, playing at surprise, then follows Alistair out.
The message is clear enough. Showing up shirtless to an Alistair Blackwood party signals one thing: you’re open to taking the patronage to the next level. Tabloids love whispering about the “inner circle” of supposedly beautiful men playing some dangerous game.
To the champagne dignitaries, it’s salacious, even laughable. To the guys who linger until dawn, eager to bask in Alistair’s glow, the logic doesn’t need much twisting.
I stayed late after my first party out of politeness and naive wonder. I’d seen the hot tub make-outs, the naked figures drifting through the sauna, the zombified dancing. Alistair disappeared for long stretches. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he spent them with one, or several, willing guests.
Is it illegal? No. Is it strange? Absolutely. That first night, I realized no one cared whether I was there. I could let the auto-deposited checks hit my account, show up just enough to remind him I exist, and leave before the night turned feral.
That became my approach to all things Alistair Blackwood.
And now that this party’s done its damage, it’s time to follow my own rules.
As the room empties, I make for the exit, blank canvas pressed to my chest, almost to the cover of the main dance floor’s bass and sweaty bodies waiting to swallow me up.
“One moment, Kael.” Alistair’s voice reaches through the music to hook me before I reach the stairs.
