Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Isabella
PRESENT DAY
After I had moved to France a few years ago, I had nothing to live by. I had nowhere to stay, no one to talk to, and nothing to do. But all I had was work. My feelings were numb, my thoughts were scattered, and my heart was stone cold. I completely shut everyone off and plunged myself into the ass of Maxwell Maurney. All because of a single phrase said to me when I was younger.
Back then, it was the only thing I could think to do to survive alone. To survive my demise. I was a rookie, with a knowledge of art equivalent to water in a desert. I was a nobody. The only thing people thought of when they heard my name for the first time was—Isabella Kirby, a twenty-year-old girl from a small town wanting to have a taste of the big world. And now, six years later, I’m the girl who savored it. The big lamented, grey, and expectation-full world.
It took me an agonizing time and a bucket of sweat to have my name on Maxwell’s speed dial. It took me that long for him to trust me not to crumble his company, and now it’s taking him a quarter of that time to want to destroy me.
So far so, he’s winning.
If I only had to put up with him pestering me for years to find the last artist for an event, I would be glad, because it wouldn’t be my first rodeo. But for the artist to be Travis, is straight-up diabolical. Sure, it might not have been intentional on his part, but it sure doesn’t feel different.
“Please tell me you’ve got something, because Maxwell is asking for you, and he’s not happy.” Madison rushes to me immediately after the glass doors slide open for me.
“I just clocked back in. Relax,” I say as I gulp a bottle of water to wash down the lunch I just had across the street.
Every day at exactly 12:10 pm., I find my way to Snack Maurice for the best combinations of a devouring meal one could ever come up with. And every day, I have a seat on the far left, near the window, with my name on it. A regular and loyal customer, I’d say. Just as I need to be seen walking out for food, I need to be seen walking into Maurney’s an hour later.
Everyone working here knows my routine, and as much as it could be beneficial in some cases, sometimes it bites me in the ass, like now.
“You don’t get to relax when you work for him, Isabella.” She follows me to my cubicle, her heels thudding anxiously. “What are you going to say to him?”
“Depends,” I say, knowing well enough she’s panicking. Madison has never been the best at staying calm in stressful situations. She’s the girl you’ll never want to pull an S.O.S. call on. Ever.
“Is he going to ask me about the new artist?” I ask.
We get to my cubicle, and I pick up a freshly printed document, ready to head to Maxwell’s office. It contains three promising artists I have yet to contact, but signing them will be a piece of cake. And of course, Travis’ profile. As much as I want to pretend I never saw his work and scrap him out of this deal, I can’t. I saw it, and it is my job to bring in the biggest potential. The choice isn’t mine to make.
At this minute, Madison’s my shadow, and her voice follows along as our steps sync to the office.
“Is that even a question? You know damn well that’s the only thing he cares about right now.”
“Then I’m going to tell him the truth. Which is that I don’t have an artist for him at the moment. Only ideas and a hope.”
She halts. “What?”
“I found our mystery artist, but he’s not cooperative, so…”
“Wait, pause. You found the anonymous artist?” Her eyes open wide, and excitement builds on her face. It almost breaks my heart that I have to shutter her expectations.
“I had the chance to talk to him last night, but I don’t think we’ll come to an agreement soon.”
The ego in me would kill to tell Madi who Travis is and every single detail I know about him, only because that’ll make me the first to have that much on him. But I can’t. I don’t know why he’s keeping his identity a secret, but after everything I had done, the least I can do right now for him is to keep my mouth shut and seal it.
“Honestly, all I’m hearing is you have an artist to work with us for the auction, and most importantly, an artist that will send Maxwell jumping on the roof.”
“Did you not hear what I just said? He’s not fucking cooperative.”
“Yes, but you knew that was going to happen, so do what you’re best at and get him to see what he’ll be missing out on.”
I see the office a few feet away from us, and my stomach slowly turns into a volcano. My inside is turning around and burning at the thought of just seeing my boss’s face. If only she knew why Travis wouldn’t want to work with me, even if I was to say every single word in the vocabulary to convince him.
“Maxwell wants a yes, not a maybe. And besides, I can’t lie to him.”
“Technically, it’s not a lie. You’ve got an exclusive, anonymous artist at hand. That’s something.”
“I guess. The worst that could happen is we don’t get to sign him, and Maxwell fires me, right?”
We look at each other, standing in front of the door to my future. At least, it was a long run knowing Madi and her alluring French accent. If I get fired over this, I’ll honestly just consider it a sign that my life only resumes to one town and a mother.
“Good luck,” she whispers, her hands cupping my shoulders. This is the shortest pep talk I’ve ever received and the best. Not many words are needed to tell me I’m fucked.
I bulk up all the courage in me, preparing myself for the shortest meeting I could ever have with Maxwell. He only needs two words to end this misery. I’ve always wanted to know ahead of time what was going to be the next step in my life, but somehow, knowing how this one is going to go makes my heart weep. If that was even possible. The glass door from his office, unmasking me, doesn’t help either.
Maxwell’s gaze lands on mine as soon as I enter, and immediately, I bow my head, avoiding them. A rogue man with a mix of gray and dark hair sits in front of him, stagnant and with a straight posture. It takes me a minute to process what to do next.
“Monsieur Laurier, voici Isabella Kirby, celle qui va s’occuper de vous et vos chef d’?uvres.” (Mr. Laurier, this is Isabella Kirby, the one who’ll be taking care of you and your masterpieces. ) Maxwell straightens his left hand towards me, behind his desk. He flaunts his French skills and fakes a friendly attitude.
As soon as the man turns to look at me, I clock in. My entire posture changes, and my mindset shifts. I go from panicked Isabella to composed Isabella. I’m in front of one of the first artists who worked with this house when it was a start-up and to even be in his presence is mind-blowing, and even more, knowing I’ll be personally handling his pieces.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” (Good afternoon, sir.) I say, tracing my path towards him. He gets up and offers his hand. I take it.
I guess I’m not getting fired today. Maxwell introducing me as the one handling Laurier’s arts is enough reassurance for me. I get to live longer in this despair.
“Oh, quelle jolie demoiselle. Enchanté,” (Oh, what a beautiful young lady. Pleased to meet you,) he charms. He controls my right hand as he lifts it to lay a kiss on the back of it. Very French of him.
My eyes quickly snap to Maxwell. He sits there, observing the little pleasantries showcasing in front of him. His lips draw a sharp line, hiding his actual thoughts. I might have had a foot in a dark pit a minute ago, but now I have a bridge to walk on, and I’ll fully take advantage of that.
The three of us stayed in that room for about half an hour, discussing the plans for the event and the pieces he would like to sell. Most of the talking was, of course, done by me. Laurier might be a well-known artist but he’s so down to earth, it almost makes me proud to be living through his journey and contributing to it.
“Je vous contacte dés qu’on a une date fixe,” (I will contact you as soon as we have a fixed date.) I say. We both get up in sync, aiming for another handshake. And just like that, we made a deal.
“J’attendrai votre appel,” (I’ll wait for your call,) he answers with a wink.
“Ravie de vous avoir rencontré. Aurevoir.” (Pleased to have met you. Goodbye.) I’ve never drawn a smile as wide as this in front of a stranger before, but I surely have done it for success. And by success, I mean money—this man’s go-to perfume.
The doors shut behind Laurier before I can pass through. I step a foot forward, attempting to get out of this office as soon as possible.
“You, stay,” a brain-scraping voice stops me in my tracks.
“Shit,” I mouth to myself.
“What do you have there?” he asks. I instantly look down at my left hand, knowing exactly what he’s referencing to. The document. Regret flows in me as I do what I dread the most and turn towards him. If I could burn this document, I would. I’ll burn anything that will bring back up the conversation about me getting fired.
“Nothing.” I swing the document behind me, making it the more obvious I have something to hide.
A breathing sigh escapes from Maxwell’s lips. “That’s enough. Hand over the task to Ethan. He’ll take over the rest of the event.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t seem to have anything to contribute here. And I’m guessing that document you’re hiding behind you holds nothing to do so either, so do as I say and put Ethan on board. You’ll only cater to Mr. Laurier from now on.”
I deeply inhale, suppressing the scorching fire within me from building up and erupting.
“As a matter of fact, I have something.” I blurt out. “An anonymous artist who recently blew up. His last canvas put on auction earned over seventy thousand dollars, and he’s still rising. No one has ever met him, nor spoken to him. He’s a ghost.”
He shifts back in his chair. “Listening.”
“Until yesterday. I spent the weekend looking for a name or contact info, and?—”
“Get to the point, Kirby. I don’t have all day.”
“I believe I know where to find him, or at least, where he could be. His life is pretty private and behind closed doors, but I think I can get to him.” I slam the document on the desk, sliding it forward towards him.
Maxwell skims through the other artists until he lands on Travis. The same canvases that grabbed my attention a few days ago do the same to him, illuminating his eyes. He stares at them for a while, trying his best not to show any kind of appreciation. A task he fails as a subtle smile betrays him.
“Great. Do you have the papers?”
“About that. He hasn’t agreed to work with us yet. I’m waiting for him to give us a definite answer.”
“Will it take long to have him on board?”
My mind roams off to last night’s text messages with Travis. The cold and brick wall he had formed between us was way up there for me to ignore, and no matter how much I wanted to, it was too prominent. For a second, I had thought he had moved on, and maybe slightly forgave me, but I was way off. The chances of him saying yes to working with me after six years of no news and just crickets are slim to none.
“Probably,” I answer, all hopes already shuttered. Sure, maybe a part of me wanted Travis to be glad at the thought of speaking to me again, or ask what I know he’s been biting his tongue to ask. Or call. It never occurred to me until now, but I missed that voice. That same voice that made my heart somersault the first time I heard it. His voice.
“Then do all you can to make it short.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said you knew where to find him, correct?” he asks as he leans back again in his seat. “Go find him.”
“But—”
“The next time I see you, there better be his signature somewhere.” His snarky voice burns my heart the more time I spend in his presence. “You can go now.”
At that moment, any resentment I had ever felt for this man grew ten times stronger than before. The intensity of my hatred is palpable in the countless undelivered emails I’ve written, detailing my absolute loathing for the man and my determination to rob him of his voice and reputation. It’s my fault I’m standing here and accepting such treatment, and it’s my fault he thinks it’s fine to walk all over me like that. But it’s time I say enough is enough.
“You know what? No.” I stand tall as I voice out.
His eyebrows lift in confusion, begging for more.
“I’m sick of you trying to burn me, Maxwell. Do you know the first thing that comes to mind every day I come to work? Your damn face. The same face you’re giving me right now. Judgmental, hypocritical, and just straight-up offensive. You don’t get to sit there and act as if you do most of the work around here. All you do in your good days is say sold, article number thirty-two, going once, going twice, and so on. So screw me if you think I don’t bring in most of the pennies in your pocket, and I’ll shut up. But if you don’t, it will be the bare minimum for you to treat me with the same respect I show you. Understood,” I articulate. Well, at least, I wish I did.
What I really said was, “Good day, sir.”