11. Chapter Aria
L ooking at the painted canvas in front of me, I let out a satisfactory sigh.
Finally.
After being uninspired for so long and beating myself up about it every chance I got, I finally had the chance to play around with my paints and brushes all weekend. Granted, I’ve barely had time to think about this since the gallery has been taking all my time and space. Not that I mind; after all, it keeps me busy. Keeps at bay those dark thoughts that seem to loom over me constantly.
The sense of feeling trapped, unworthy, just an overall fucking mess. Then, feeling bad and ungrateful about how I’m feeling, because despite everything, I have a good career. So what if I’m not a professional artist for a living? I still get to be around art. That should count for something.
The endless cycle just fucking continues.
After arriving home Friday night, my emotions were in high gear—so angry and confused. Frustrated at Damian; at the situation. All I wanted to do was blow off some steam. So I did—the only way I knew how.
My blissful weekend is coming to an end now, currently finishing touches of the painting. This one portrays a man and a woman in mute tones—white, black, and different shades of gray. The man has his hands behind the woman’s neck, their bodies pushed together, leaving little to no space while their lips hover so close they’re practically kissing. It portrays so much longing; desire; temptation .
It expresses exactly how I feel after that passing moment between us—tempted. I know he wanted to kiss me. The air crackled with wild electricity. You could cut the tension with a knife. For a moment, it felt like it was just us, and there was only one thing I wanted: his lips on mine. I wonder how his soft lips would dance with mine, how his hand would grab me by my hair possessively, giving us the chance to deepen the kiss. The idea of kissing him feels so right, yet so fucking wrong.
It’s impossible to get him out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is his silhouette at the club after saving me. His gentle touch around my face, making sure I was alright. His green eyes piercing mine, giving me that involuntary tingling sensation all over my body.
Cleaning the sweat off my forehead with my forearm, I take one last look at the painting, my cheeks hurting from the huge smile that’s plastered all over my face. The root of this painting comes from feelings that I can’t understand yet, feelings I want nothing more than to push down and forget about, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling a sense of pride.
I like my job, but today the feeling of dread consumes me. It's been two days since my weird encounter with Damian at the club, and all I want to do is hide seven feet under the earth and never come out. There’s one question that’s been stuck in my head ever since.
Why was he there?
The little I know about him, going out is not his scene at all. He’s all about business, making money, and ultimately, getting a rise out of me every chance he gets. He’s as introverted as they come, never seen out or with women.
Arriving at the gallery, the place is bustling with activity, which is strange considering we aren’t open to the public yet. After much back and forth, we decided to host an opening gala once we complete the gallery collection. We’re still missing one piece, but hopefully, we’ll be able to get one at the New York auction.
Taking the steps to the second floor, I walk to Isabella’s desk, finding it empty. There are lots of people—mostly men, dressed in all black—going in and out. Frowning in confusion, I knock on Damian’s office door.
I hear multiple male voices from that side of the door, angry whispers going back and forth.
“Come in,” Damian says from the other side of the door.
Entering, the first thing I notice are Damian's baggy eyes, messy hair, and his button-up shirt sleeves rolled up. He looks like a wreck, probably didn’t get a lick of sleep.
“You’re dismissed,” Damian says, pointing his fingers at two guys. One looks remarkably similar to Damian, just slightly shorter, and the other guy is blond, with deep blue eyes. They both nod and leave.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Someone broke into the gallery Friday night, right after I dropped you off.” He sighs, sitting down.
Taking a closer look at him, he’s wearing the same outfit from the night of the club.
My voice laces with concern. “Have you been here all weekend? Why didn’t you call me? I could have helped.”
He looks up, his face void of emotion. “With what, exactly? There was nothing for you to do. I have it under control. ”
“Just go home. I got the rest.”
He shakes his head as he goes through a few documents. “No can do. I’m almost done here anyway. By the way, they stole the main piece.”
My blood runs cold at his words. We’ve carefully chosen every single item in the collection. We've been working on it diligently since I started. That painting is extremely important; it sets the theme for the rest of the gallery. This is the worst case scenario possible. All the work we’ve poured, going down the drain.
“We have the auction next month,” I point out.
He rubs his eyes, letting out a frustrating sigh. “That doesn’t work. Statement pieces are hard to come by. The auction doesn’t guarantee we’ll find any. We need connections, anything. I have a couple of people who owe me favors. I’ll see who I can call—”
I interrupt, “No. I got it. I’ll make some calls and see what I can do.”
He hesitates for a moment before nodding.
I try not to take it personally. After all, I know who I’m working with. He’s a control freak. It’s surprising we’ve gotten along this long. It stings a little, though, because I’ve done nothing but prove myself these past months. Day in and day out. Working weekends. All of it. So, yeah. Him looking this uncertain fucks with my head just a little and makes me slightly question the work I’ve done .
I do my best to muster a smile as I walk out of his office. Before leaving, I look back and say, “Please go home and get some rest.”
I don’t know why, but concern floods over my body, almost like instinct. Yeah, I’m pissed off they broke into the gallery and stole from us. I’m also a little pissed about him not calling me, asking for my help. But mostly? I’m concerned about him. I know how deeply he cares for this gallery. He has poured his heart and soul into this project of his.
Settling into my office, I fire off emails and make calls to a few connections I have made over the years, desperately seeking anyone willing to do business with us. I debate whether to call Alex. I know he has a couple of connections, but there’s just one little problem—I haven’t exactly told him I started working for Damian. Not like I owe him anything anyway, but he’s a close friend, and he made extremely clear his feelings toward the situation.
Biting my lip, I muster the courage and call him. Keeping my reasons for wanting to meet vague, we agree to meet at our usual spot—Lorenzo’s. I arrive about thirty minutes before him, trying to go over my notes and hoping for the best that he’ll be willing to help me. Alex arrives, walking toward our table, so I get up and receive him with a warm hug as always, then sit back down.
“You sounded worried over the phone, everything okay?” he asks, settling into his chair .
“Listen, I'll get straight to the point. Someone broke into the gallery Friday night and stole our main-themed piece. I’m in desperate need of a replacement, and we’re also missing another statement piece. We can’t wait until the auction. I need to speak to someone like… yesterday,” I stress.
“Someone stole from The Institute?” He tilts his head in confusion.
I sigh, contemplating my next step.
Might as well get this over with.
“No. They stole from The Romano Gallery.”
He frowns, confusion plastering all over his face. “ And ? Why do you care what happens to that gallery?”
“I work for The Romano gallery now.” I bite my lip.
“What!?” he whisper-shouts.
“The offer was great, and honestly—”
He smacks the table, startling me. “Of course it was fucking great. Damian will trick anyone into anything. I can’t believe you let him buy you like that!”
I tilt my head, gaping at him.
Buy me? Who the hell does he think he is?
I grit my teeth. “First of all, I did not let him buy me. Or have you forgotten the name I’ve made for myself?”
He huffs. “Yeah, thanks to me!” he shouts, his face draining of color as he comes to the realization of the stupidity that came out of his mouth .
I shake my head in disbelief as I get up and grab my purse. “Wow, Alex. That was low, even for you.”
As I’m walking away, he gets up and grabs me by the forearm, dropping my purse in the process, all my stuff scattering all over the place.
I groan in frustration as I scrunch down, picking up my things. He leans down and helps me, putting my things back in my purse as he hands it back.
“Ari, I’m sorry. I wasn't thinking. You just really caught me off guard.”
As we’re getting up, I push his chest with one finger. “No, go ahead. Tell me how you really feel. Seriously, Alex, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but all you did was teach me the ropes. I did the rest.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he pleads. “Please, let me make it up to you. You know I would do anything for you.”
I know he would, which is why what he said hurts even more. I’m not stupid. I know Alex has had a crush on me for years, which is ridiculous considering he literally slept with my best friend, but who am I to judge? It doesn’t change anything, because I’ve never seen him as more than a friend. A really good friend. The comment stings, because what if he’s right? What if the only reason I became such a famous curator is all because of him?
The logical part of me tells me that idea is simply ridiculous. Yes, he taught me everything he knew, but I found my own internships and connected with the right people. Not only that, Damian fucking Romano hired me . The pickiest man alive was so impressed with my work he decided to take a chance on me. But then, there’s that insecure little 12-year-old girl that has doubted every step I’ve taken, every choice I’ve made tells me that; yeah, he’s probably right. And it fucking hurts. My heart squeezes knowing that for better or for worse, my mother will always be right. The insecurities will cripple me when I least expect them and burst wide open.
I let out a defeating sigh. “Forget it, Alex.” Storming out of the restaurant, I’m fuming. My stomach is churning from hunger pains, and my mind's going a millions miles per hour. How fucking dare he? I’m insecure as it is when it comes to accepting any type of help and the one time I do, it bites me in the ass years later. I fucking swear, my luck is just like that.
Arriving at the gallery, it seems that everyone has left due to how quiet it is. Making my way upstairs, I enter Damian’s office without knocking. He’s sitting at his desk, with his arms crossed on top of it as he rests his head. I told him to go home, but leave it up to him to never listen to me. It’s like talking to a wall sometimes.
I let out a small fake cough and he startles, then looks up and rasps, “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say softly. “I thought I told you to go home.”
He laughs as he scrubs his eyes. “Well, good thing I’m the boss and I don’t have to listen to you. ”
I roll my eyes. “I came in to tell you that I—” My phone pings.
I look at it; it's an email from Alex.
Fucking great. Wonder what the hell he wants now.
From: Alex Brown
To: Aria Petrov
Subject: Rome Meeting Details
Hey Dorky,
I was able to get in contact with one of my contacts from Rome, and they agreed to meet with you. Only catch is, both you and Damian Romano have to be at the meeting. Two days from today. I know it’s last minute, but take this opportunity. I know they only said yes because it’s Damian.
I’m sorry for what happened. I hope this can make up for it. If you need anything else, let me know.
—Alex
I smile faintly. Leave it up to him to use the nickname he knows I pretend to hate so much. He’s trying to get in my good graces after his big fuckup. It’s going to take more than that to make me feel better, and even though that insecure part of me screams to not take this opportunity, I still do. Because this job is too important to let my insecurities filter through.
“Aria?” Damian says, pulling me out of my trance.
“I figured out our issue. A curator from Rome can meet us in two days. We will have to leave today to hopefully make it in time and actually be rested for the meeting,” I point out.
He quickly gets up, grabs his phone, and fires a text right away. “Got it. I can have the jet ready for tonight. Be ready at seven. I’ll pick you up.”
I bite my lip nervously as I nod.
A two-day trip with Damian, what can possibly go wrong?