22. THE ART OF REVENGE
THE ART OF REVENGE
No one ever says the rules out loud in a town like this, but break them, and you’ll know them fast enough.
Mr. Bennett never cared about the lines he crossed; he thought people like Elona were just background noise, forgettable.
But today wasn’t going to be a quiet day.
Today was the reckoning, and I was done waiting for justice to show up on its own.
Mr. Bennett, the self-styled king of the art world in Butte, paraded around in his poorly tailored suits, his nose always tilted upward as if he was above everyone else.
I had watched Elona walk out of the brothel after she told me about her experience at the gallery several nights ago, her eyes still red with disappointment and something shattered inside me.
I couldn’t let it go, not when I knew that there was still a fire burning inside her, that her work was demanding to be seen.
The gallery gleamed with its sterile, godly aura: a temple of exclusion.
White walls, pristine floors, paintings hanging at regular intervals.
The space was like an imitation of art, perfect in form, yet empty in substance.
He had rejected Elona without even sparing her a second glance, blinded by his own warped views.
I walked in like I owned the place. The black portfolio under my arm held the essentials, but it was the power of my presence that would do the real work.
Mr. Bennett stood next to one of his latest exhibits, incrementally adjusting the already perfectly straight painting.
The moment I cleared my throat his eyes cut toward me with surprise.
“Miss Bernadette,” he said, his voice dripping with forced politeness. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
I let a smile curl at my lips. “Oh, I’m sure you weren’t,” I said, my voice honeyed with a hint of sting, “but I’ve come to show you something. Something . . . quite extraordinary.”
Mr. Bennett’s gaze moved to the portfolio under my arm, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and that gleam of curiosity was all I needed. He straightened, his posture shifting like a dog that decided the scent was worth the chase. “What’s that?”
I shifted forward slightly, my tone purposefully tantalizing. “A collection of charcoal drawings, portraits of women. Stunning work, Mr. Bennett, I’m sure you’ll appreciate them.”
The skepticism still lingered on his face, but it was slipping. “Hmm, I see. Well, we’re not exactly taking new submissions right now—”
I cut him off smoothly. “Oh, I’m not submitting, Mr. Bennett.
” I said the words slowly, savoring the power in them.
“I’ve been told that my friend’s work might be better suited to a .
. . private collection.” I placed just the right emphasis on “private collection,” the words sliding from my tongue like an invitation to an exclusive, unspoken world.
His eyes brightened. “Well,” he said, his voice low, “I’m intrigued. Show me.”
I pulled the portfolio out from under my arm, opening it slowly.
His face, usually so smooth, betrayed the slightest hint of hesitation as he peered down at the first drawing.
The charcoal portraits jumped to life with a depth that made even the sterile gallery feel too confined.
The women in those portraits had power, grace, and vulnerability, the kind of presence that couldn’t be ignored.
His fingers hovered over the first page, skimming the surface as though unsure how to touch something so real.
“These are. . .” he faltered, voice filling with surprise, “remarkable. The depth, the shading, the realism. . . it’s incredible.”
I waited, my eyes fixed on him, knowing exactly what he was thinking.
I could see the wheels turning in his mind, the internal struggle between his own rigid biases and the undeniable quality of the work in front of him.
I let him stew for a moment, enjoying the silence.
“I’m glad you see it.” I said, my voice oozing with just enough sweetness to make the venom underneath that much more poisonous.
“The artist who created these . . . she’s truly extraordinary. ”
Mr. Bennett nodded, his posture tightening as his mind kicked into overdrive. “Yes, yes, these could be the next big thing. We should feature her in the upcoming exhibition; this could make a name for her.”
My lips curved into a knowing smile. “I’m sure it would,” I said, measuring each word. Then, casually, “But you see, I’ve already reached out to another gallery in Bozeman and they’re very interested.”
His eyes narrowed, just slightly.
I turned toward the door. “Still,” I added, glancing over my shoulder, “if you'd like, I’ll go ahead and get her.” Before he could answer, I was already moving, pulse quickening with a simmering satisfaction. I didn’t need to look back to know his gaze was still on me.
Stepping outside, I found Elona waiting, her shoulders slightly hunched, uncertainty clinging to her and the sight tugged at me.
Beneath that hesitation, I saw what so few ever did: a quiet brilliance, and a strength that didn’t shout, but endured.
She was so much more than anyone, least of all Mr. Bennett, could ever begin to understand.
I placed my hand gently on her elbow, guiding her forward.
“Come on,” I said softly. “Let’s show them what they’ve been blind to. ”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Birdie, I . . . I can’t. I’m not—”
“You can,” I said gently, but with absolute conviction. I smiled, pride unmistakable in my eyes. “You can do anything, Elona. Now go in there and make him regret ever treating you as anything less.”
I opened the door wide, ushering her inside like a queen stepping rightfully into her palace.
Mr. Bennett’s eyes flicked up, meeting Elona’s, and for a brief, taut second, his face twisted in disbelief.
Apparently he couldn’t quite reconcile the woman standing before him with the artist he had only just begun to appreciate.
“You mean . . .” His voice cracked. “She’s the one who created these?”
I stood behind Elona, my gaze fixed on Mr. Bennett, watching the realization dawn on him. “Yes, Mr. Bennett,” I said, relishing the moment, “she’s the one. But I believe you’ve met before?” I took a step forward. “Now, perhaps you’d like to discuss that exhibition?”
There was no hesitation this time, no arrogance, just stunned silence.
Then Mr. Bennett cleared his throat, struggling to recover from the full impact of his own ignorance.
His voice trembled slightly as he spoke.
“I . . . I had no idea. Please, Miss Elona, we would love to feature your work.” He gestured to the portfolio. “I must have these.”
“Well,” I said coolly, “the Bozeman gallery didn’t seem to have any issue with the color of Elona’s skin. It made no difference to them, only the art mattered.” I let that sink in, then added, “And really, that’s what a true gallery is meant to be about, isn’t it? The work, not the artist.”
His mouth opened, then closed again.
“Of course,” I continued, “we’ve already begun discussions with them. Pulling out now wouldn’t be simple, and frankly, Mr. Bennett, if you want Elona’s time, you’ll have to make it worth it to her.”
Mr. Bennett turned toward Elona, his expression pale.
“Miss Elona . . .” he said, voice softer now, almost pleading.
“I was wrong, I see that now. Your work. . . it’s extraordinary, and if you’ll allow it, I’d be honored to feature it here.
To feature you.” He hesitated, as if weighing the cost of humility.
“I can’t change what I didn’t see before.
But I’d like the chance to make it right. ”
Elona blinked, still catching up to the moment.
She drew a steady breath and met Mr. Bennett’s gaze, her voice clear.
“I’d be honored to have my work featured.
But I’ll need to see if our values and ideas align well enough for a working partnership.
Please feel free to write up a proposal with numbers, and I’ll get back to you.
” Then her eyes found mine, a silent thank-you passing between us, her lips curling into the faintest, grateful smile.
I winked at her, pride in my chest nearly bursting. The tables had turned.
We walked together toward the door, Elona’s fingers brushing the handle.
“You go on ahead,” I said gently. “I just need a word with Mr. Bennett.”
She stilled, her hand lingering on the copper. “Birdie—”
“It won’t take long,” I assured her, shaping my voice into something warm, something that would have passed for harmless, if she didn’t know me as well as she did. “Go.”
She searched my face, trying to find the truth hidden in the smallest corners of my expression, but exhaustion weighed heavier than suspicion.
She was too worn down by the fight, by the emotions spent over these past few days, that whatever questions lingered, she let them go.
And after a beat, she nodded, before slipping outside.
I waited.
One heartbeat. Two.
Until the echo of her footsteps thinned and vanished into silence.
Only then did I turn the lock.
Click.
When I turned back, Mr. Bennett was already watching me, his posture no longer the easy, curated poise he wore just seconds ago. His gaze flicked toward the door behind me before returning to my face.
“Miss Bernadette. . . ?” He asked, uncertainty in his voice.
I didn't say anything. Just watched him, studying every shift in his expression before I moved. Each step carried me farther into the center of the gallery, my heels soft against the pristine floors.
“Elona might forgive your poor manners,” I said at last, my voice level, smooth enough to mimic kindness if one didn’t listen too carefully. “But I don’t operate on forgiveness.”
His throat bobbed, the movement betraying his unease. “I think,” he began, choosing each words carefully, “there may be a misunderstanding. I’ve already expressed—”
“No,” I interrupted. “You’ve performed an apology.” A faint smile touched my lips, though there was no warmth in it. “There’s a difference.”
He moved behind the wooden counter, his eyes narrowing as he recalibrated, searching for a way out of this. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”
I tilted my head, considering him the way he might consider one of his acquisitions—assessing composition, searching for flaws, wondering where the structure would fracture first if enough pressure were applied.
“Interesting question,” I murmured.
Above us, the gallery lights hummed awake, spilling a harsh, headache-bright glow across the room. I drifted toward one of the white walls, stopping just close enough to catch the faint ghost of my reflection in the varnished surface of a framed piece.
“You didn’t reject her because she lacked talent,” I continued, my tone almost conversational now, as though we were discussing something as mundane as brushstrokes or framing. “You rejected her because you thought her value was determined by the color of her skin.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” I said softly, cutting him off. “And what you did—what you relied on—was the assumption that she wouldn’t come back.”
His expression tightened, the words catching somewhere between offense and exposure. “What are you implying?”
I turned then, meeting his gaze fully, and let him see, really see, that whatever pretense had existed before was gone now, stripped down to something far more honest and far more dangerous. Mr. Bennett shifted, the movement small but telling as I stepped toward him, my heels striking the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Each sound closing the distance until it was no longer polite, until the space between us felt charged in a way that had nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with control.
“I’m not implying anything,” I said quietly. “I’m making sure you understand exactly what kind of mistake you’ve made.”
For a fraction of a second, he held my gaze, clinging to whatever kindness he thought still lived there.
Then I reached into the pocket of my dress and by the time he realized what I was holding, it was already too late.
The knife flashed once beneath the gallery lights before I drove it through the back of his hand, the blade sinking deeply enough that the tip lodged into the wood of the counter with a dull, splintering crack that vibrated up my arm.
His body jerked hard in response, a broken sound tearing free from his throat as he tried to pull back, causing the wound to open wider. He frantically screamed before my free hand came up, clamping firm over his mouth.
“Careful,” I murmured, leaning in close. “You wouldn’t want to make a scene in your beautiful gallery.”
His breath came sharp against my palm, uneven and shallow, his eyes wide and full of fear. Up close, I could see it clearly now, the understanding, the dawning realization that I was in fact, as crazy as they said I was. And that brought me a sick kind of joy.
My gaze dropped to the wound, blood pooling, spilling over his skin, and dripping down onto the polished surface below.
“Let this be the part you remember,” I said, my fingers tightening around the handle, anchoring him in place. “Not the apology you performed. Not the sale you nearly lost.” I twisted the blade. “But this.”
He let out a muffled cry, his breath stuttering against my palm as tears slipped down his face.
I eased my hand from his mouth, turning the blade once more before pulling it free, the wood and bone yielding with a reluctant scrape as he cried out in pain. I dragged the blade clean across the front of his shirt, the gesture almost absentminded, before slipping it neatly back into my pocket.
I stepped away, smoothing my dress as though nothing at all had happened.
At the door, I paused, glancing back over my shoulder. His injured hand was clutched to his chest now, his body curled inward, but he hadn’t moved from where I left him.
“Do be more careful next time,” I said lightly. “Not everyone is as forgiving as Elona.”
Then I unlocked the door, turned the handle, and stepped out into the sun as if I were leaving nothing more than an ordinary meeting behind me.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Bennett.”