Chapter 1

Jennifer

The light chirping of the birds stirs me from my sleep, and I open an eye to the muted light washing into the room through the curtains. I snuggle comfortably into the pillow on my side, throwing the warm comforter over my bare shoulders as I allow sleep to take over once again.

Not for long, however, as I feel a soft pair of lips press against the back of my neck.

“What the fuck?”

I push myself up, confused and hungover, a wave of dizziness washing over me at the abrupt action.

“Good morning to you, too, beautiful,” the man beside me greets, sitting up with a lazy smile on his face. “I trust last night’s activity left you satisfied?”

“God, what even happened? And why am I in bed with you?” I dumbly ask, rubbing my temples with my fingers as I try to remember what happened. Yet I only see flashes of light, music, and people, which really doesn’t help with my situation.

“Let’s just say you invited me for a good time, sweetie,” he comments. “And I did have a good time if you’re curious.”

Oh God, not another cocky nobody.

“Save the effort of wooing me, it won’t work.” I leave the bed and make my way to my vanity to grab my bathrobe from the chair. “Now, please leave. I have to work at eleven.”

“Good company in bed and a hustler? I think I hit the jackpot,” he says as he pulls his boxers up.

“Believe me, you’re not getting anything from me after this.” I wait as he fixes himself up, focusing on my phone as I go through messages and emails. When he’s fully clothed, I lead him out of the apartment.

“Call me if you want to have another good time.” He leans in for a final kiss, and I turn my head away, scowling at him.

“Go,” I say, jerking my head to the door.

Dismayed, he leaves, muttering a string of curses on his way out.

I slam the door shut and make a beeline for the bathroom to take a shower. I strip out of my bathrobe and hop in, the warm water calming my nerves despite my growing headache.

Once I’m done, I towel myself dry on my way out of the bathroom. I walk into my closet and dress in my favorite black pencil skirt and blazer that goes well with a simple white top. I take out my black Louboutin heels and then head towards my vanity to do my makeup.

I hastily fix my hair, thankful for my recent pixie cut, before putting on my favorite pair of emerald huggie earrings.

Giving myself a final once over, I grab my bag and make my way out of the apartment. I take out my phone and make a call as I descend the stairs.

“Jonathan? I’m on my way out. Can we meet by the bakery at the end of the street?”

Jonathan’s booming laughter startles me. “Running late today, miss?”

I sigh. “Unfortunately. I have a slight hangover, and I’m meeting a client in an hour.”

“Got it, miss. It’s already rush hour anyway.”

“Thank you! I’ll treat you to a croissant,” I gratefully reply, stepping out of the complex and into the bustling area of Saint-Germain-des-Pres.

“I’ll hold you to that, miss.”

With a click, Jonathan drops the call. I stuff my phone into my bag and head to the bakery, silently praying that today would be a good day despite the rocky start.

***

I spoke too soon about smooth transactions, I think to myself, hardening my gaze at the old lady before me.

“I simply can’t sell this for a lower price, Miss Allair. The fairest price I can give for the piece is €506,120,” Mrs. Dupont argues, placing a gloved hand over my desk.

“Mrs. Dupont. If I may retaliate, our museum curates and buys high-quality pieces.” I take a look at the painting on display before us, a work of Mrs. Dupont’s husband, who is surprisingly regarded as a rising artist in the art world, despite his old age.

“And? What is your point, Miss Allair?”

“My point is Mr. Dupont is still a rising artist despite his amazing works. It would be too much for our museum to acquire it at such a price,” I reason, trying to keep my cool about the bargain.

Usually, clients would be easier to deal with. They'd approach me with their best interests, yet with limited knowledge about how art and money work. Mrs. Dupont is the same, except that she’s persistent about her husband deserving more than what he can offer.

Obviously, I beg to differ. But I’m not about to bring my personal thoughts into the matter. Work is work, and personal relations aren’t needed here.

Despite my advice, however, Mrs. Dupont is relentless.

“This is one of my husband’s life works. Can’t you be kind enough to buy the piece?”

I hum. “Lower the price to €340,900 and we have a deal.”

“No! I will not settle for that low of a price.”

I sigh, already anticipating where this is going. “Do you want my honest opinion, Mrs. Dupont?”

“Yes. I would like to know why you refuse to buy the piece for the price it obviously deserves.”

I push myself out of my revolving chair and walk over to the painting.

“Despite the intricate details of the piece, Mrs. Dupont, the quality of the materials seems, for lack of a better word, cheap.”

“How dare—”

“I’m not done, ma’am,” I warn, smiling sweetly despite my irritation. “While oil paints are indeed expensive, I can tell they were not recently bought. In fact, most of the materials used were accumulated from Mr. Dupont’s years of being an artist. Even the canvas.

“Not only that, but this frame is something I’ve seen countless times before. Some artists unreasonably double their artwork’s price by choosing this.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean my head to the side. “Now, if I were to be asked, the price I’m offering is still much more generous than its actual marketable value.”

With a shaky voice, Mrs. Dupont asks, “And what price might that be?”

“Only €206,080. And that’s something for a piece from a…lesser-known artist.”

Mrs. Dupont’s eyes grow wide. “T-That can’t be right!”

“That’s the reality of it, ma’am.” I lean on my desk, itching to strike the final deal. “Now, will you take my initial offer, or will you leave and look for another museum to take it in?”

“But… But I need the money,” she mutters, her eyes swelling with tears.

“Mrs. Dupont, for whatever price you settle for, you still get the money,” I tell her. “Please make the decision now.”

“Alright. I’ll sell it for your initial offer,” Mrs. Dupont says hesitantly.

Delighted, I present her the contract, read her the terms, and watch as she signs it. I go back to my desk and write the check, smiling as I send her off. As she leaves, I hear a bit of sniffling from the other side, and I sigh.

What can I say. I have that killer instinct. I got it from my papa. When most other Black men back in the day who managed to get into college were going into accounting or law or engineering, my Papa graduated from an HBCU, made his way to France, and put his Art History degree to good use. 

He used American gumption and bootstraps and built a Black owned art museum in the heart of the lily white art world. And people flocked to him for it. 

He taught me that if you work hard, no one will be able to pull you down.

“Such is the life of a person married to an individual in the arts,” I tell myself. As I begin packing up the papers, my phone rings. I pick it up, greeting, “Allair here.”

“Jenny! Wonderful timing! Is the sale finished?”

“Yes, Papa. Just finished.”

“Excellent! Let’s talk about it over dinner. Fancy eating at Chez Diane?” At my hum of agreement, he continues, “For now, hurry over to the other branch to meet me. I have something big to discuss with you.”

“Right now? I still have two clients left for the day.”

“I already asked Ainsley to take over for you. Please hurry as this is something that can greatly affect the museum.”

Interested, I pause in my task and reply, “I understand. I’ll be there in ten or fifteen, depending on the traffic.”

I place the last stack of papers on the side of my desk, pack up my stuff, and exit my office in record time.

Chapter 2

Ren

I groan as I put my alarm to snooze, stuffing my head under the covers and shying away from the sunlight. Painting until three in the morning is never a good idea, but it also never stopped me from doing so.

I turn my alarm off completely after it goes off the second time, and I make a move to sit up. I run my fingers through my long hair, yawning despite the late hour.

“How long was I out?” I murmur, checking the time on my phone as I scratch my head. The screen flashes 12:13, and I sigh at the thought of losing half a day to sleep.

I get up and stretch languidly, allowing my muscles to relax. Walking to the middle of my room, aka my art studio, I observe my surroundings and laugh at the mess I’ve accumulated in the past few weeks.

It’s about time I tidy up, I guess.

I make quick work of the brushes, storing them away carefully in my brush jar, and placing them on the table beside the easel. I then move to my balcony doors and open them, letting the cool breeze in and pull the pungent smell of oil paints and linseed oil out.

The streets at this time of day are quiet, save for the kids playing downstairs and the occasional gathering from the neighbors across my apartment complex.

“Today’s a good day,” I muse to myself before returning to my task. I begin organizing my materials and equipment. At the same time, I take out scraps of paper and tissues and dump them in the trash bin by the door.

Once I’ve made my room look decent, I step out of my sleep clothes and head for the shower to wash off yesterday’s grime. My hands are spotted with oil paint, their colors mixing on my skin. I turn on the faucet and do my best to get the paint off, taking a small bit of glycerin and dabbing them on the painted areas before scrubbing them clean.

After most of the dried paint has come off, I strip off my clothes and take a proper shower. I take my time, stepping out thirty minutes later and drying myself off as I walk to my closet.

I throw on a simple oversized shirt and some denim shorts. Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I take out the hairdryer and begin to dry my hair, brushing it as soon as I’m done.

I head to the living room, sighing as I weave through the countless paintings around me. Despite my luck of getting an apartment with a balcony, the space is still too cramped inside, especially with the number of paintings displayed everywhere.

But I keep this place even though I can afford something bigger because Dad got this for me when I decided to move out. Nothing can ever easily replace emotions and memories. This place is my home.

My stomach grumbles as I take my wallet from the couch, and I leave the apartment, descending the stairs in hurried strides. Immediately, I find myself in the quiet streets of the village.

But before I can get anywhere, Antonio bumps into me, a grin plastered on his boyish face.

“Ren! You’re finally awake!”

I chuckle, ruffling the boy’s curly hair. “What do you mean ‘finally?’ I was awake ages ago!”

“No, you weren’t!” he retaliates, matter-of-factly. “You weren’t listening to Laura Pausini on the balcony like you always do, so I figured you were still asleep.”

I laugh heartily, amazed by the kid’s observation skills. “Do I listen to that much of Laura’s music?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! I hear it every time you call me over.” Antonio perks excitedly, bringing his hands behind him. “Anyway, do you need me to buy you lunch?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I’d rather buy something myself today, Antonio.”

“Aw, so no tip for me?” Antonio exclaims, pouting.

I chuckle at the kid’s words. “I’ll get you a cookie on the way back. How does that sound?”

“I’d like that very much. Thanks, Ren! You know where to find me!”

I watch him as he joins his friends before I take off for the other side of the street. I head towards Trattoria d’Abruzzo and enter the quiet restaurant.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Angelino!” I greet, walking up to the counter and taking a seat in front of the man. “Are you done serving lunch or did I make it just in time?”

“You’re just in time, Ren,” the old man informs, booming with laughter as he leans over the counter. “What will you be having today?”

“If possible, I’d like to have the day’s special?”

“You’re in luck! We’re having cacio e pepe today.”

I beam at the news. “Then cacio e pepe it is! I’d also like to have a pizza al taglio and one cookie.”

“Will you be having it here?” Mr. Angelino asks expectantly, eyes shining.

I shake my head. “I’ll be taking out today’s special,” I say, already expecting his disappointment.

Sighing, Mr. Angelino punches in my order and rings up my bill on the cash register, clicking his tongue.

“You’re always working, Ren. Come eat here sometimes! The regulars miss your stories, you know?”

I laugh, delighted by the sentiment. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make time in the next two weeks. I just have to finish this piece.”

“Well, whatever it is, I hope the piece is going well.” He barks orders for someone at the back before turning to me with a quiet smile. “The kids at the elementary school miss your art sessions as well, or so that’s what my daughter tells me.”

“I’ll be sure to pay them a visit some time,” I promise. He gives a silent nod and goes back to polishing glasses while I wait for my order.

When my food arrives, I take it gratefully from Mr. Angelino and leave the place after promising to visit again soon. I pass by the playground to give Antonio his cookie before I make my way back to my apartment.

I go straight to my bedroom and place my food on the high table next to the balcony. I then take the covers off the piece I’ve been working on tirelessly for weeks. I stare at it, marveling at how the colors are finally coming together.

“This part still looks wrong, though,” I murmur, closely observing one area of the painting.

I open my takeout box, and the salty smell of the dish hits me. I smile in delight as I take a small bite, the creamy texture blessing my tongue.

“Oh, that hits the spot,” I say, taking another bite of the dish. After I’ve momentarily satisfied my hunger, I make a grab for my materials and resume last night’s work.

With practiced hands, I squeeze small blobs of oil paint onto my palette. I dip the brush into the paint, and once the brush hits the canvas, I lose all sense of time and begin painting the hours away.

It’s like a trance. The feeling is akin to floating on water, letting the waves guide me while the sun keeps me energized.

When I finally stop to rest, the sun is already beginning to set, the sky tinted with hues of reds, yellows, and oranges. The food beside me is gone, and the colors on the painting make more sense than they did a week ago.

I step back and admire my work, a calm feeling suffusing me.

“Wish you were here to see this, Dad.”

With a sad smile, I take the brush again and go back to work, never wanting to lose the trance I’m in.