Chapter 1

Sophia

I pace up and down the sidewalk with a handful of paintings, trying to find anyone that will buy them. I need to raise money fast. If I don’t get my paintings sold, the bank will foreclose on my beloved gallery, and I can’t stand to think about it. 

         I go from business to business, showing off my work, getting increasingly discouraged with every no I receive. Several people tell me my work is beautiful, but they only buy from well-known artists. So, me being an unknown painter, they always end up turning away.

         As the day goes on, I’m starting to get more desperate and decide to ask local businesses for small donations. I take my phone out, show them pictures of the building, and explain its history. But, the gallery is small, and many people aren’t even aware it exists.

         Doors get shut in my face, and some of the people giggle. “Let it close. We don’t need small galleries owned by nobodies taking up our space. Give the building to a business that actually benefits us,” one of the store owners tells me.

         As the day starts fading into night, I call it and head home. No one cares about a small unknown gallery. I’ll have to find some way to save it on my own! As I walk down the street toward my house, I can’t seem to take my mind off my never-ending list of financial problems.

         Aside from the bank, I have many other debts. It’s been rough for me financially, and I still can’t seem to catch a break. Everything is going downhill, and then, just when I think things can’t get worse, I hear the rumors. Someone is saying I’ve been selling counterfeit paintings, and  I’m not even sure how they think that it’s possible when I sell my own work.

         But, word gets out, and people listen to the vicious gossip. Even people who have bought things from me repeatedly hear the rumors and stop coming.

         Finally, I arrive home and walk in the door. I lean the pile of paintings against the wall and walk into the kitchen. I haven’t eaten a single bite of food all day, and my stomach hasn’t even noticed. But, I know my body needs some sort of food to keep going, so I open the cupboard.

         I pull out the first thing I grab, and it just so happens to be an easy microwavable cup of noodles. Perfect! Something quick and easy so I can climb into bed and sleep off this shitty day, I think as I place it in the microwave.

         Tiredly, I watch as it spins in circles until the dinging startles me. I pull it carefully out and grab a spoon. I carry it into my bedroom, set it on the nightstand, and pull off my clothes to throw on an old baggy t-shirt before climbing into bed.

         I flip on the bedside lamp and grab my noodles. As I slowly eat them, I reflect on the day’s events. How can people be so cruel? I don’t understand. I can’t believe that no one even spared a dollar.

         Suddenly, the lights go out, and darkness surrounds me. I don’t move, contemplating what’s going on. Until it hits me. Shit, I forgot to pay the electric bill…

         I’m so upset with myself and want to burst into tears. Today has already been shit, and now this? Why can’t I catch a freaking break?

         Tears start to well up in my eyes, but I blink them away quickly. I can’t let myself cry. If I cry, it’ll mean I’m giving in to defeat, and I can’t let myself do it.

         The whole reason I’m even in this situation is because of the gallery manager. Since he embezzled all the money from right under my nose, there hasn’t been a single thing going right. I sink down in my sheets and pull the comforter up to my chin.

         My eyes are playing tricks on me as I stare into the dark. I don’t know how I’m going to solve my issue. I only have two weeks left and no idea how to get out of this. I must accept that no one will help me, and I must figure this out alone.

         Before I know it, the sun rises, and I haven’t slept a wink. The only thing I can think to do is take my paintings to a more prominent gallery owner down the street. Maybe, he will love them. But, at this point, I’d settle on him taking pity on me. He’s a fellow owner, so he will understand how hard it is.

         I climb out of bed and go to my closet. I want to wear something to make me look more professional and sophisticated. But then I remember who I am and know I have nothing more than jeans and baggy t-shirts.

         I pick a shirt I think looks nicer than the others and throw it on with a pair of light-colored jeans. I slide my sneakers on my feet and grab the pile of paintings as I walk out the door. I talk to myself the whole way to the gallery. I’m going over scenarios and sentences to try and make this sale happen. It’s my only hope, and I can’t blow it!

         When I arrive at the building, I pause on the steps before entering. I take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves. This is your last chance, don’t blow it, I say to myself again as I walk in.

         “Hello there, little lady!” says a short, black haired man as he walks toward me. “What can I help you with today?” he asks. He instantly gives me a creepy vibe, but I try to look past it and state my business.

         “Hi! I was just looking for the owner. Are they here by chance?”

         “Well, darling, you’re looking at him. What can I do for you?” He plays with the toothpick tucked between his teeth as he smiles from the other side of his mouth.

         “Oh. O-okay,” I stutter, wondering why he keeps calling me names. “Perfect. I own the little gallery down the street and just had a question.”

         “What is it, hun?”

I stare at him for a moment with irritation, wishing he’d stop already.

         “Well, I brought some of my paintings with me, and I was just wondering if you’d be interested in purchasing any of them! It would really help me out.”

         “Oh, I’d hang your portrait on my wall any day of the year!” He rips the canvases out of my hand. He studies them for a moment before looking up at me in confusion. “You said these were your paintings? Why aren’t you on it?”

         “Wait, what?”

         “Why am I staring at a badly painted picture instead of a portrait of yourself? You made it sound like I’d be getting a picture of you, and I’d definitely buy that! But these, what are these?”

         “Oh my God! Why would you think that?”

         “Well, a beautiful girl walks in here claiming she has paintings to sell. I just figured you were a model starting out or something.”

         “Absolutely not! I own the gallery down the street and sell my paintings. But, the gallery has fallen into some hard times, and I’m trying to raise some money to save it. I’m going door to door trying to sell these or get donations.”

         “Hmm. It sounds like you need some financial help. You see, I have a bit of a predicament of my own. Maybe we can help each other.” A devilish grin smears across his face.

         His look instantly disgusts me. “What could you possibly want from me that would help you?” I ask. The grin stays on his face, and his eyes look up and down my body, making me uncomfortable.

         “You’re a beautiful girl. I bet you don’t have much time for a boyfriend with your business.”

I shift my weight awkwardly onto my other foot and cross my arms over my chest, which he can’t keep his eyes off.

         “You see, I’m looking for someone who doesn’t require much time and effort to stay with. Someone I can call on the side for a good time that I can get quickly. Who can be content not hearing from me until the next time I need her. If you know what I mean. Someone who can be my own dirty little secret in the shadows.”

         “I really hope I don’t know what you’re meaning.”

         “You know, being my mistress. You’d be perfect. I’d get someone to have fun with, and you’d get spoiled. We both win!” He reaches for my hand, and I rip it away from him. The palm of my hand reaches his cheek as I slap him.

         “How dare you!” I say and head for the exit.

“Fine! But, you’ll never have a future in the art world!” I hear him yell as I escape outside.

Rain instantly pours as soon as my feet hit the pavement. I swear I have to be a bad luck magnet. You’ve got to be kidding me! I think and walk down the street. I can’t take it anymore, and tears spill down my cheeks.

I have no options left, and I can’t even remember the last time I had a decent meal. All I have left is a few dollars in my account, and no one is willing to help me. I even got desperate and went to my father’s friends. They don’t offer help either.

It’s all my fault. If I weren’t so stupid and actually ran the business, none of this would be happening. I keep walking and can hardly see through the mixture of my tears and the rain still pouring.

Suddenly, after not realizing I’m crossing the road, I hear the sound of a car screeching, attempting to stop beside me. All of a sudden, I’m thrown hard onto the pavement. My arm and leg are throbbing, but I instantly try to stand up. A sudden burst of extreme pain hits me, and I immediately faint.

Chapter 2  

Jerome

         I glance down at my watch and a scowl passes over my face. Damn it, I’m going to be late.

This meeting is an important one and I’m kicking myself for already blowing it.

         I silently will Eric, my driver, to step on it but he’s already swerving wildly through D.C. traffic. Yelling at him now will only distract him and he already knows how crucial this appointment is.

         I look at my watch again. Ten minutes and I’m supposed to be negotiating with Gordon Orlando - one man with whom I can’t afford to make a bad impression.

         For the last twenty years, Orlando has basically been a hermit. Getting a meeting with him is almost impossible. I had to pull a lot of strings to set this up.

         This guy - or at least, his alias, D.G. - is the stuff of legend in the art world. And that’s a world I plan on ruling one of these days. With the acquisition of some of the most prestigious galleries in the country, not to mention a growing collection in Europe, I’m well on my way.

         I smile to myself as I think about how far I’ve already come. De Laine is my parent’s business, but I’m the one who made the transition from respected local gallery to worldwide enterprise.

         I don’t know many 30-year-olds who can put multimillion-dollar business expansion on their list of achievements. Even some of my fellow Harvard graduates haven’t done as much as I have in this time.

         If I play my cards right, this meeting will put me right on track for my ten-year plan. That’s if I haven’t already screwed it up. 

         Orlando’s gallery has been on my radar for a while now and I’d hate to lose this deal because of the simple mistake of turning up late. Besides, it’s not only the gallery I’m interested in.

         As I bite my tongue, my mind runs through everything I know about Gordon Orlando. I’m holding back the urge to scream at Eric that we need to go faster and my mental fact sheet is a good distraction. At least for now.

         Four decades ago, Orlando was at the epicenter of the D.C. arts scene. Long before he was a gallery owner, he was an artist himself and he’s still viewed as one of the defining voices of that era.

         As a bisexual man in the 80s, his paintings captured the crushing weight of the AIDS epidemic. He produced very little public work, but the pieces he did exhibit were absolutely stunning.

         Vibrant neon colors, and bold contours undercut with a sense of foreboding. The deep sgraffito lines scratched into the thick oil paint hinted at a community in crisis.

         Each painting depicted a different male nude in surreal pinks and blues, greens and purples, though the background was invariably a murky black. The men were Orlando’s friends and lovers, many of whom were diagnosed HIV positive in a time before anyone cared what was happening to them.

         Aside from his sexuality, very little is known about his personal life - I’ve heard that he eventually settled down with a woman. But any information about who she was and what happened to her is mostly speculation.

         Since he disappeared he hasn’t released any more public work, but the studio attached to his gallery suggests he’s still painting.

         With so few of his pieces in existence, they’re incredibly valuable - both monetarily and culturally.

         And rumor has it, there’s one piece from his heyday that never made it to exhibition. Orlando himself hinted at it in our last phone call and I’m itching to see if the rumors are true. If it does exist, I’m prepared to offer a ridiculous sum of money in order to own it.

         That painting, along with the acquisition of his gallery, will put me on the map. It will spell out the next chapter for De Laine.

         I pull out my tablet and scroll through the collection of Orlando’s pieces I have bookmarked. I want him to know how much I respect his work. I’m not just some dumb kid throwing money around. I’ve done my research.

         Maybe that will make up for my tardiness. I look down at my watch again and at that precise moment, the heavens open.

         I’m supposed to be at that meeting in five minutes but Eric is slowing down to maneuver through the heavy rain. This time, I can’t hold my words back.

         “Eric goddammit, I need you to step on it!”

         He knows that tone of voice and he does as he’s told. I’ll still be late, but hopefully not embarrassingly so.

         I go back to browsing, biding my time. But I barely have time to take in what I’m seeing before I’m jolted out of my reverie. The screech of tires fills the air as the car comes to a sudden and violent halt.

         My tablet is thrown across the car. If I hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, that would have been me.

         Instead, my forehead collides with the passenger’s seat in front of me. Luckily, the impact is little more than a sharp rap on the head. I’m a little dazed but nothing serious.

         I look around, trying to figure out what happened, but the rain is still coming down heavily and I can’t see anything through the windshield.

         It turns out I don’t need to though, because Eric is yelling.

         “Mr. Fortington, we just hit someone!”

         A heavy dread fills my stomach, but my first thoughts aren’t for the person we hit.

         Fuck, this is the absolute last thing I need.

         I hardly register how selfish that line of reasoning is. Despite what’s just happened, I’m still focused on the task ahead. This accident is in the way of that.

         Eric is already out of the car and I reluctantly follow. Approaching the front fender, I see a young Black woman sprawled out on the road. Her curly black hair is quickly being flattened onto the bitumen by the relentless rain and she appears to be unconscious.

Even so, she is stunningly beautiful. 

I stare for a moment too long. I can’t help myself. I’ve never had someone take my breath away, and I force myself to rip my eyes from her face so I can finish assessing the scene. 

         Beside her, a couple of paintings are taking an equally harsh beating from the rain. Some of the frames are broken and the canvases are lying limply on the road.

         Another artist, huh?

         Eric is already attending to her so I do the only thing left to do - call 911.

         By the time I get off the phone, the woman still hasn’t come to, and Eric is looking at me with panic in his eyes.

         Fuck. I look at my watch again and realize there’s no way I’m making this meeting.

         The best thing I can do now is accompany the woman to the hospital to make sure this doesn’t come back to bite me. I don’t need another mess to clean up.

         We follow the ambulance all the way to the hospital. I need to figure out how to get out of this.

         The way I see it, she walked in front of us. At least, that’s what I’ll be arguing if anyone comes after me. I just need to stick around to make sure she sees it the same way. If it takes a little convincing, my pockets are deep enough.

         It’s not long before a nurse comes to tell me the woman only has a few minor injuries. “Nothing to worry about,” he assures me. “Your friend is awake now. You can see her if you like.” I guess he didn’t get the memo.

         I’m not about to waste any more time here. If she’s fine, then I have nothing to worry about and she can make her own way home.

         I pull out my phone to call Orlando. I pray we can somehow still have our meeting - albeit it over an hour late. This accident is a good excuse at least. Before I can dial though, my phone starts ringing.

         It’s his office and I hope to God he’ll accept my apology. When I answer, though, it’s his secretary.

         “Mr. Fortington? I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting. Mr. Orlando unfortunately suffered a minor heart attack just as you were about to have your meeting and, of course, that means he couldn’t make it.”

         This is a shock. Honestly, it’s the last thing I expected to hear. Part of me is relieved though. At least he won’t know it’s my fault we didn’t meet. I shake off the thought.

         “Is he okay?” I almost forgot to ask.

         “Yes, thankfully he’s fine. He’s in the hospital under observation, but they tell me he’s doing well. I’ll call you in the week to reschedule the meeting once we know when he’ll be good enough to work again. I hope you understand Mr. Fortington.”

         “Yes, of course, thank you.”

         I hang up, feeling a little dazed. What are the odds? My mind is already racing as I mentally scan my schedule for the coming weeks. I hate feeling out of control, and having to wait another week or two to meet with Orlando will mess with my plans.

         Still, it means I didn’t have the chance to blow it today. With the urgency of that meeting out of the way, I try to decide what to do next.

         The nurse from earlier is still hovering around the hallway and he catches my eye with a questioning smile. Polite but expectant.

         I sigh and look at my watch. I don’t have anything else scheduled for the afternoon - I was expecting the negotiations to take all day.

         Why not? I figure I may as well stay and check on her. Better to make sure there aren’t any loose ends that will trip me up later.

I call for Eric, then nod to the nurse. He turns, ushering us down the hallway.