Page 22 of The Unfluencer

“You’ve seen them?”

“When Warner dropped by the following week, he showed me pictures on his phone, and I knew they were special.”

I’ve got chills.

And just like that, my heart’s involved. Invested. The need to see this collection is so overwhelming, I feel the blinders locking my tunnel vision in place.

Rare. Un-gettable.

Clive’s words buzz to the surface of my mind, igniting me inside out. It’s not the golden unicorn, per se. But it is palatable enough to draw the masses. Out of sheer curiosity alone, Ellswood will show up to see the preview night. The headlines say it all: the people want more behind the scenes from the reality TV star and the tech mogul.

And okay, again, it feels wrong, thinking about a woman’s legacy in terms of exhibit-bait. But who else will value and care for her art like I will? Tell her truths, her joy, and even her struggles, through a beautiful Black lens?

All the pop culture vultures out there, ready to trademark and resell it at a premium? Harrington, taking all its cues from me?

I don’t think so.

And maybe I’m not Glengarry Glen Ross, always closing. But I’ve lived my entire life with versions of Warner, and that gives me a leg up on handling him. If he experiences the Artery, he might reconsider. And once the rest of Ellswood’s there, I’ll give them every reason to keep coming back.

A few minutes later, I hug Dr. Brown, thank her for trusting me with this information, and promise to see her this weekend at the gallery for Corinne’s opening that I’m about to kick into high gear. The Artery’s about to be the quietly exclusive, guestlist-only gallery, hosting the event of the season. Even if it means crafting a pitch sharp enough to pierce through the Tin Man’s heartless armor.

“Hey,” I say to Clive on Bluetooth the moment I close my car door. “I need you to add one more invitation. But it’s got to be hand-delivered on Friday…”

Chapter Five

Warner

Establishment

“All of this because I want to sell some paintings?”

I blow out my cheeks, letting hot air slowly out through my nose. Tension ticks at my temple as I shift aside this morning’s newspaper on my desk, then meet Dr. Bellamy’s unmoved expression on my screen.

Can I get a blink?

No, you don’t want to write something in your notebook? Just going to sit there deadpan, shrouded in a forest of houseplants, huh?

A frustrated laugh claws out of me.

“Well, there’s not much I can do about it, is there?” Who needs verbal feedback when my tele-therapist stares at me like a blinking chatbot cursor? She’s just waiting for the right input to trigger a preloaded response. And, apparently, I’m just managing a crisis because every move I make is now public record.

Dr. Bellamy blinks twice.

Well, at least I know the connection hasn’t glitched.

She won’t interrupt, though. Not when I’m “feeling” my emotions. Giving myself “permission to heal out loud.” Another one of her catchphrases she’s said a dozen times over the last eight months of tele-therapy.

I glance at the bold headline splashed across the front page of the Ellswood Times.

WHISPERS IN ELLSWOOD VALLEY: TECH MOGUL SET TO OFFLOAD LATE WIFE’S SECRET ART COLLECTION

My pulse slams in my neck.

I swallow hard, straightening.

“I guess headlines are just part of my new reality,” I say, still talking to the void. “Somehow, the world’s found a new passion for my wife’s paintings, when they didn’t even know she’d ever picked up a brush.”

“Does that bother you, that the public never knew this side of Sherry?”