Epilogue
EPILOGUE
Isabella
5 MONTHS LATER
“Stand by,” I say to the mic hovering over my lips, scanning the room. Standing at the corner of the hall, I have a clear and open view of everyone. Everyone is being observed, from the staff members to the money-driven guests.
My head spins from left to right, making sure the guests are in their seats, and most importantly, that everyone with a role in this house is in their spots. I have enough to worry about and a stray member on my plate is the last thing I want.
As expected from the great Maxwell and his big ego, I became a target. He has been on my back since my return, with every second of the day, his name blowing up my phone even more than the norm. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he had missed me. Wrong. He had missed bossing me around, that’s for sure, because the second my plane landed on the soil of France, I became his scapegoat. Thankfully, Madi has been giving me a helping hand in the planning, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
“Lot 2 isn’t here yet,” Madi’s deep voice rings in my ear through the headphones and my body freezes on the spot.
I take a deep breath to collect myself, putting any bad thoughts behind me. Now is not the time to panic. “Are the sales catalogues distributed?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she answers.
“And Maxwell?”
As the auctioneer in charge of this event, Maxwell is my priority. If his head is nowhere to be found—then I’ll start panicking.
“He’s…” she strains and my heart races at the seconds passing by. “Ready,” she finishes.
An immense relief follows my exhale and for the first time, I’m happy to hear about Maxwell’s presence in the building.
“But what about Lot 2?” she asks.
“I’ll check up on it,” I say.
My feet guide me backstage, asking around for a damn painting worth more than a hundred thousand euros, and even though it isn’t my responsibility to keep an eye on every piece put for auction if one was to go missing… it’ll still be on my head.
Following many claims of ignorance of where the portrait is, I decide to tell Maxwell that his beloved depiction of someone’s muse has disappeared a mere thirty minutes before the exhibition begins.
“Are you looking for this?” a voice stuns me from behind, making me turn on my feet.
Lo-and-behold, Ethan’s shiny bald head captivates my view. And beside him—the greatest stress reliever, outperforming any form of medication. The Conservative . A lonely portrait capturing a woman looking far into the distance with a purpose. No matter where one stands while staring at this painting, their eyes will never meet hers. This piece was good enough in Maxwell’s eyes for it to be this year’s cover lot.
“Oh my, thank you,” I breathe out.
“Looks like I saved the day, didn’t I?” he says, and I roll my eyes to the back of my head.
“Take the thank you and send it to the front.” I turn my wrist to check the time. “We have twenty-five minutes before it rains,” I say.
It doesn’t take long for the show to start. Meaning, it’s time for Maxwell to talk a few people into investing and get some money flowing.
I stand in my spot, at the corner, my eyes on the charming guests. The center occupies bidders with on their lap, sales catalogues, and a paddle ready in their hands. Aligned on the sides, proxy bidders get ready to hear the voices of who they’re representing. It’s a full house today, and I can’t help but be proud of it.
The room is broadly lit with spotlights transmitting a warm glow on the first piece as two staff members bring it to the stage.
“Welcome to today’s Art Exhibit Auction Event.” Passionate chatters fill the auction hall as the words fall from Maxwell’s lips. “We’re going to set off with Lot number 2. The Conservative by K. Craig, held by two presidents as of now. I don’t think I need to explain this lot further, since everything is in the catalogues, so let’s start,” he begins. “I have a starting bid at five hundred thousand. Five hundred.” Maxwell’s voice becomes docile as he leans towards the crowd.
The room buzzes with excitement as collectors, art lovers, and investors, vying for attention, flaunt their paddles in the air. The escalating numbers cause a mixture of awe and trepidation within me, and every time it does that to me, I remember why I never regretted choosing this path.
“Five hundred thousand for Alice,” he says, pointing at a proxy lady with a bob, a telephone pressed to her ear.
“Does anyone want to challenge Alice’s bid? Next is five hundred and fifty thousand. Five fifty. Any room bidders? Five fifty.” He immediately raises the stakes, gazing left and right in search of a bidder.
The tension builds up with every bid and my heartbeat keeps pace, though it isn’t much of the art that has my nerves on edge tonight. It was the anticipation of seeing one of Travis’ pieces presented in front of hundreds of people.
“Two five from Seth. Two million five. Anyone for three? Three.”
Most of the proxy bidders have their hands straight in a line, informing Maxwell not to hit the gavel, yet, as they’re still discussing with whoever is behind the call.
“Three million,” a man I believe is Seth, raises his voice along with his paddle.
“Three million we have here. Three five? Three million five for The Conservative . If no one bids, the piece will be for Seth. Three million five. Anyone?” Maxwell builds up the show.
I look around, and the paddles are down. “Fair warning,” he says. “Three million euros for Seth on the telephone. Going once… going twice.” He continues to skim around. “Sold!” The gavel makes its sound as it hits the lectern.
That was just the beginning.
After watching multiple pieces being sold off to bidders, my mind wanders to Travis. We’ve been in touch since my departure and though I had uncertainties about whether things will be fine between us, he made sure those doubts escaped my thoughts.
Every day for five months, besides talking about the auction event, he’s been the best long-distance boyfriend one could ever ask for. I thought it would be hard to get back on track with him, but I couldn’t be more wrong. My obsession with him just keeps getting worse by the day, and that makes it easier for me to hold on to him.
And today, more than any other day, I miss him.
All these famous paintings are being swept away in a blink. What if it won’t be the same for him? Ugh! This is the reason separating business from pleasure is my motto. Before knowing the artist behind the art, I had complete faith in his paintings selling, but now, knowing it’s him, I can’t help but be subjective.
People don’t know of him, though rumors have always churned about his identity. Now, here I stand, waiting for his piece to come up, realizing I know him better than anyone here.
The last piece of the night lands on stage, and mercy be upon me as I set my eyes on it. Crazy as it might sound, even after seeing it hundreds of times and analyzing it, the feeling never gets old. Travis is good with portraits and landscapes, but this surpasses his talents.
A hauntingly exquisite painting of two lone figures, dully shaped in form, standing in the middle of a narrow road, full of grey and deep blues. Around them are clocks set at different times and at the end of the road is a light. A bright and purposeful light, echoing on them. My heart clenches as I stare at it, acknowledging the depth of emotion laced into the brushstrokes.
This piece is unique—more personal, and more vulnerable than the ones I’ve lived to see beforehand. I’m always left with questions, no matter how many times I ask him for an explanation.
“Lot 42, the last piece for tonight. In front of you and on the pages, a never-before-seen painting originated by the painter of The Blue Wagon. A Hunt for Forever by Anonymous A., starting at fifty thousand. Fifty-five. Sixty!” Maxwell does what he does best. His rhythmic voice takes over the stage and paddles fly around the room. With every raise, the number gets higher.
Excitement builds up in me as I glance toward the crowd, watching as Maxwell continues. Seventy, eighty, ninety—and it keeps going. Feeling a surge of joy, I realize this celebration acknowledges his efforts, his passion, and his tears.
Then, a new voice breaks through the bids—a familiar voice, one that sends chills down my spine and down every part of my body.
“One million,” he says like a breath of fresh air.
I search the crowd, skipping ongoing bidders following the million bid, trying to put a face of the voice. And just like that, there he was, hidden in the shadows of another. My boyfriend—the man I love—was in the same room as me, hidden among strangers and bidding for his own piece. My gaze fixates on him, wishing to be closer.
I haven’t seen him in months, and now, he’s bodies away from me and I can’t even reach out to him. And his hair. Back to their shiny, golden state, they remind me of a time when we had only each other.
Travis bidding a million euros for his work was the last thing I had thought would happen at this event, but at least no one in this room knows of his existence. Our eyes meet among the crowd and I bite my lip to keep me from smiling.
The room tunes off and the gavel hits again. I regain the spirit of the event, shifting my gaze from Travis to Maxwell, thinking he had won.
“Sold to Alice at one million five at Maurney’s,” Maxwell stamps.
He had lost.
He had lost his own work. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be happy about that or not, but the smile illuminating his face tells me it’s the first option.
With the night drawing to a close, the crowd gradually dispersed, chattering about the events of the evening. Some move to claim their winning prize.
By the white glove handed to Maxwell at the end of the event by staff members, I can state that the auction was an ultimate success.
But happy as I am, I still feel icky about a few affairs. Seeing Travis in the crowd today, among hundreds of faces, got me thinking. He will always be the one to make me smile and the one to reassure me it’s never too late to reach for what I want, regardless of what others think.
So, with a deep breath, I gather some courage—something I should’ve done a long time ago—and walk towards my boss, who was in deep conversation with a few of his rich friends.
I slowly approach, wary of the situation. “Quite the night, wasn’t it?” I slip in. “That last piece—a real showstopper.”
Not even a second later, his friends vanish and leave me alone with him.
“Do you need something?” he asks.
I stay silent, slowly rotting.
“I don’t have time for this, Kirby. Why would you interrupt my conversation if you have nothing to say?”
His choice of words lights the courage back to life. “I have two things to say, sir,” I begin.
He sighs.
I breathe. “One. I’ve been working here for a few years, and with everything I do, the results are impeccable. That is why, sir, with all due respect, I’d like for you to start showing me the respect I deserve and definitely have fought for. Otherwise, the next time you see me, it’ll be with a resignation letter. Because I know damn well I’m the best the house can ever have, and you also do,” I spit out, my heart racing at the beat of my voice.
“Kirby.” He smirks.
“Two. Unless it’s an absolute emergency, please refrain from calling my number past six p.m. and on weekends. You might not realize it, but I also have a life, and most of the time, it doesn’t revolve around you. So, please, I ask respectfully, let’s respect our boundaries and peacefully bring Maurney to the top,” I add.
Just as he’s about to speak, a shadow grabs my attention as I perceive it from my peripheral vision, standing behind Maxwell.
“What—”
“Speaking of having a life, I have an important event I have to attend and if by any chance I see your name on my phone, I’ll block you and you won’t have anything to say about it. How about that? Fair, isn’t it?” I mute him.
I can’t believe it took me this long to stand up for myself. Five good years of tolerating his bullshit, and tonight’s relief makes it all seem worth it. I might be fired by sunrise, but at least my dignity hasn’t been completely washed away by him.
“Have a good day and a better weekend. The auction was a pure success. Congratulations,” I say before walking off, a smile on my face and my head held high.
I rush toward the building’s entrance, hoping to catch who I believe I saw. I didn’t have to search for long. Travis’ back welcomes me as I spot him leaning against the wall just outside the doors. The door rotates to the outside and I get to him. His gaze lifts to meet mine as soon as I step into the cooled-off night air.
The moment our eyes locked, the weight of all my burdens dropped.
“It sold,” I say, standing at a fair distance from him, unable to walk towards him.
“I know,” he murmurs.
He takes a step forward, and that’s all it takes for the gap to be closed, giving him the chance to pull me into his arms. His arms I’ve missed so much. They tightly wrap around me, and the firm beat of his heart against my cheek screams a thousand words. Unspoken words only the two of us understand.
“You bid,” I say, my voice muffled in his jacket.
He lets out a soft laugh, brushing my hair back as his hands graze my neck, holding me closer.
“I wanted to be involved, even if it meant breaking a few rules,” he whispers, his voice like home.
I pull back just enough to look up at him, still grasping his jacket. “I’ve never felt so proud of you,” I say, barely a sound.
His teeth make an appearance as his smile grows wider, and my chest tightens as what I said was true. I’m extremely proud of him. It was more than a sale of his painting… It was me being part of his life. Not as a teenager without a dream, but as the woman who promises to stay by his side for as long as it is permitted to her.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, plunging my face back into his jacket, smelling the heavenly perfume he releases.
“Can I have your last name?” he asks.
My mind goes blank before pulling back again to look at him.
“What?”
“I want us to have the same last names. Can I have yours?”
I laugh. “You know that’s not how it works, right?”
“So, is it a yes?”
Looking up at him, I beam. “I prefer yours. McGreen. McGreen,” I recite. “Isabella McGreen. It sounds perfect.”
“Mr and Mrs McGreen, it is, then,” he says, leaning in to land a soft kiss on my lips, promising me the same as I have promised myself.
The mystery boy I had seen at the balloon stand eight years ago was my pacemaker, my joy, my tears, and my longing. But he was also the love of my life and the man I’ll grow to wish was always by my side to the end of time.
I’ve missed six birthdays, six Christmases, one graduation, and a thousand I Love You, but from today forward, I will double the days I’ve missed and spend the rest of my days wishing them all to you , Trav, and whispering in your ears—I love you.
THE END