Page 17 of The Unfluencer

Until now.

“Anything else you want to address, sir? Or can we get back to artistic brilliance…” I lift the monitor so high it’s almost to the ceiling.

We declare a blink-off.

I feel the moment his gaze shifts and lands on the headshot of the beautiful Black artist with flawless, deep ebony skin, her coiling, dark curls pulled back in a neat chignon, body hugged in gorgeous green satin. Every bit queen coded.

When Clive meets my gaze, he studies me with this intense stare that says he’s letting me off the hook. For now. But we’ll most certainly be circling back later.

Then his voice drops a full octave.

“It’s a great piece, Whit.”

“A great piece?” A humorless laugh sputters out of me. Speechless, I glance from him to the unnervingly enchanted, dynamic storytelling coming through my screen. “Clive Marshall, we’ve got half Ellswood’s upper echelon coming to this gallery Saturday to see Corinne’s iconic wood-and-ceramic busts. The embodiment of people’s faces… that already exist. Those are great pieces. Incredible, even. And I’m glad the exhibit’s getting the mentions and article spotlight it deserves.”

“But?” he prompts me.

“But this?” I zoom in, focusing on the texture. “This is my Roman Empire. This moves me to my core. This is why I didn’t fuss when Gertrude…” I pause, biting back the words, my skin heating just thinking about my grandmother and her iron will, rules, and receipts.

I didn’t let her mold me into a Zion & Zara debutante, force me to earn a finance degree before I could even consider settling down with a man, and make me “earn” my inheritance—and her so-called love—only to end up building this gallery and curating more uppity watercolor stock images.

But I don’t say any of that.

Clive already knows the stock I come from, and why I’m determined to make my own path on my terms.

“I hear you.” He flashes me an empathetic look. “And every day that this Ascension Award-nominated place is open, you’re already winning. That’s on baa, baa, black sheep, my friend. Gertrude Graves can fuss with her reflection.”

I smile, chuckling. “She’s praying I fail.” My words come out emotion choked. “I know it. And I’m just trying to create something that matters⁠—”

“And you are,” he says, sweetly. “The Artery is your life’s work. Your shiny contribution to the world’s cultural fabric. You’re helping artists find their audiences, empowering an entire generation with the ArteryBeat Arts Project. Showing your grandmother—and that sperm donor—that you don’t need them to succeed. That you haven’t confused your means with your meaning…”

“Yes.”

“Keep going.” Clive nods encouragingly. “It’s going to happen for you.”

I zoom out and circle my hand over the screen again. “This is what it’s all for. Not just to become Ellswood’s cute little local gallery. Do I care about those bougie, low-vibrational folks? The Sunday brunch crowd? Giving them a place to stroll without even a second glance at the pretty little paintings in the window? Absolutely not.” I drag in a lungful of air and plop back against my chair.

“Listen, I’m agreeing with you, Whit.” Clive’s expression softens like he’s about to piecemeal my disappointment. “This painting moves us.”

“But it won’t move Ellswood.” I say the quiet part aloud.

“Not yet. They will show up, though,” Clive insists. “Once you make the name, draw the crowds, and give them something they can’t get anywhere else. Something rare, un-gettable…”

Oh, is that all?

On cue, my watch starts pinging.

“Oop, saved by the bell.” Clive chuckles.

“Shit, Dr. Brown.” I snap upright with a sharp inhale. “I’ve got to get going. If there’s any truth to the whispers about that collection you told me about a few weeks back, she’ll definitely have the scoop on it.”

I blow out a quick breath, renewed hope coursing through as I squeeze his hands. On autopilot, I log off, stand, throw on my jacket, and grab my purse and phone.

Clive squares my body to his, bending to meet me at eye level.

I can’t put my finger on it, but when he says nothing, it feels significant.

“What?” I ask.