Chapter 8 Sophia
Sophia
Gabriel’s hand at my lower back felt like it was only there to move me from the mansion to the car.
The drive to the museum had been quiet, but not in a peaceful way.
It was the kind of silence that grows between people who want to move on from their last conversation but can’t stop mentally replaying it.
He hadn’t looked at me once after we started driving, but I’d spent most of the ride staring out the window anyway, so how would I know?
Maybe it was just me who wanted to forget.
I hadn’t asked what he was thinking. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to risk hearing the answer.
The museum came into view, but I barely registered it.
"We'll pick you up in an hour," he said.
I stepped out of the car, not having to try much at looking the part of a snobby rich artist with how irritated I felt. Behind me, Gabriel’s staff carried the painting with reverent care, like it mattered.
I squared my shoulders. Lifted my chin. Tried to feel as if the role I was playing were the truth about me.
I climbed the steps to the museum’s entrance, and a man leaving held the door open for me. Staying true to my feelings, and my role, I didn’t thank him.
A tall, thin man with thick glasses at the front desk read me with a tired glance. “This way, please.” I followed him, ignoring the calculating stares from two huge security guards. Somehow my heels clicking against the marble floor gave me a little confidence.
He opened a door and motioned for me to enter.
The hallways here were different than the display areas—less showy, more functional.
The walls were lined with pieces waiting for their turn to be paraded before the highest bidders, paintings and sculptures lined up carefully in order of presentation.
There were better works than mine here, and worse ones.
I let out a quiet, disbelieving breath as I passed a painting that looked like someone had just thrown paint at the canvas.
Another was little more than a single line across a blank canvas. Blatant money laundering.
I’ll just paint a line next time.
Gabriel’s men set mine down right at the front of the line, unboxed it, leaning the wet painting encased in glass against the wall, then looked at me, expectantly.
"You can go, I guess."
They shared a glance, then sauntered off.
“This way.” The man continued without pause, leading me into the next area. The auction room. “I know you’re a new name here, but next time, use the black service door behind the museum.”
I inhaled slowly, wiped my clammy hands on my dress, and stepped into the room.
Rows of upholstered chairs fanned out in a semicircle, each one facing the low stage framed by velvet curtains. A wooden podium stood at the center, a microphone perched on its edge. The room hummed with quiet energy, the low murmur of voices blending into the background of wealth and power.
I moved through the rows of chairs with slow daintiness, choosing a seat near the edge.
A few seats away from a group in the same row.
My childhood dream had been to sit in a room like this, waiting for my art to be shown to a gasping, applauding crowd.
Then I got older and adopted the realistic goal of simply selling art to strangers at a cost too low for me and too high for them.
And now, life was challenging my goals again.
This had been framed as my moment to rise.
A chance to break into a higher market, to make connections, to be seen as an artist with vision, someone on the pulse of high art.
A name that belonged in the mouths of people who saw themselves as better, as superior to the world around them.
But looking around now, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to belong to the hushed conversations, sharp glances, and the kind of forced civility that masked how these people really felt about each other.
Every whispered exchange seemed to carry weight, a power play disguised as small talk.
Gabriel’s family wasn’t welcome here, which meant I wasn’t either, not really.
These weren’t people I could network with, let alone trust. The idea that this would somehow elevate me, open doors, legitimize me as an artist, that would never happen.
The lights dimmed slightly as the auctioneer stepped onto the stage.
He looked like the kind of man who could make anything sound priceless, even when it wasn’t.
He adjusted the microphone like he’d been waiting his entire life for this exact moment, then leveled the room with a single, sharp glance. Conversation died instantly.
“We begin tonight’s bidding with a piece from a highly revered European artist, Claudia Rousseau.”
A weighted pause, then an overhead light drifted towards me.
Oh shit.
The auctioneer gestured toward me flamboyantly. “New to the country, but not to acclaim.”
Heads turned appraisingly. I smiled like I was restraining a huge ego, and as the spotlight left me, everyone looked back to the stage.
Cold horror passed through me as my painting was carried into the spotlight. My eyes locked onto the flaw, barely visible beneath the glare of the glass, but I knew exactly where it was. It was only a matter of time before everyone else saw it too.
The auctioneer didn’t blink. He regarded it with something close to reverence, and, surprisingly, the man a few seats over from me, who had given me a particularly critical stare, did too.
His chin lifted, eyes narrowing with the vague performance of appraisal.
He nodded once, low and slow, a soft grunt of approval escaping him like he fancied himself an expert discovering something rare.
I sat perfectly still, but my heart was pounding.
The auctioneer gave his rehearsed introduction, speaking of it as though it were something truly unique, something worth spending a fortune on.
A hand lifted from the middle of the room.
Nikolai.
"Ten million," he said with his thick accent.
The auctioneer blinked, visibly annoyed at being interrupted, but with a gracious nod and a smooth pivot, he turned back to the crowd, calling for a higher bid with the same polished enthusiasm as before.
It was subtle, but I felt the shift. The room stilled in a way that didn’t show on the surface but could be sensed all the same. There would be no competition. Not when Nikolai placed a bid.
I exhaled slowly as the auctioneer called the sale, watching with relief as the painting was removed from the stage.
That was it. A ten-million-dollar transaction, clean and effortless.
Compared to my old life, trying to sell a single piece for a few hundred dollars had felt infinitely more difficult.
Here, an imperfection wouldn’t have changed anything. The details were meaningless.
Murmurs rose again as another piece was carried out.
Through the murmurs, a voice behind me stood out. Louder, like he wanted to be heard.
“She’s a real catch,” he said, voice smooth and amused. “Tamed her right. Thought she’d fight more, but it’s amazing what a little pressure can do.”
The words made my skin prickle. Still, I kept my posture easy, eyes on the stage.
There was something too familiar in his tone, entitled, practiced. He was the kind of man that didn’t expect to be questioned.
“She acted like she’d never seen a cock before, but now? I can’t tell the difference between her and a high-end escort.” A pause, muffled words I couldn’t catch from whoever he was talking to. Then: “Her father would be proud.”
“If he even remembered her.”
“Please. He can’t even recognize himself in a mirror.”
Their laughter was low but authentic. They weren’t worried about being overheard. That was what unsettled me the most.
Their conversation died after that, so did the murmuring as the auctioneer began his next performance.
I should have ignored them.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I shifted slightly, letting my gaze drift over my shoulder.
At first glance, they didn’t look like much. The one on the left was narrow-shouldered, with brown hair, green eyes maybe, and a suit tailored just a bit too perfectly. He carried himself like he wanted it to look effortless, but couldn’t figure out how.
The other man was different.
Lean, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, slicked back, neat and deliberate.
Striking, not in a way that demanded attention, but in a way that refused to be overlooked.
You couldn’t look just once. His features were cut too clean, his jaw sharp, his brow strong, high cheekbones.
The dim lighting cast a shadow over his eyes, like a statue sculpted for intimidation as much as beauty.
He didn’t posture like the other man. He didn’t need to. He owned the space around him.
He watched the stage with complete ease. Then, as if pulled by a thread, his gaze slid to mine, calm, slow, assessing.
I shifted my eyes past him, leaning slightly as if I’d been looking behind him all along, but the awkward twinge of knowing neither of us was buying it was almost physically painful.
I couldn’t help but look again to see if I was imagining it.
The amusement on his face as he watched the stage told me I wasn’t, and I faced forward, wishing I could leave. It dawned on me then. I could leave.
I stood, adjusted my dress, and turned toward the exit, making myself politely small.
The auctioneer continued his ramblings about a piece, the blank canvas with a line on it, and I passed the row where those two men sat.
I swallowed, didn’t look, and kept walking. The main exit back to the museum felt too far away. I walked faster than I should have, resisting the urge to look back. Until I reached the door.
He was following me.
There was something coldly elegant about him, something that made my skin crawl. He moved like he had all the time in the world and nothing to fear. And in that moment, he looked like he was hunting.
I could feel my heart beating.
I pushed through the door into the museum and veered left, towards a janitor mopping by the small janitor’s closet, the door slightly open.
He looked up as I reached him, startled. "Whoa, miss?"
I didn’t say anything. Just shoved past him into the closet, then turned and frantically waved at him, hoping he would realize my wide eyes and wild gestures meant, ignore me please let me hide in here.
His confusion shifted into understanding as the clicking echo of footsteps became louder, and louder.
He went back to mopping, subtly closing the door almost all the way.
"Excuse me," the man said, calm and pleasant, “Have you seen which direction my date went? About this tall," I could hear the smile in his voice as he gestured, "Brown hair, red dress, nice ass, gold earrings. Stunning. Hard to miss."
The janitor cleared his throat. "No, sir. I’m sorry. Haven’t seen anyone."
I could almost feel him standing there, still and sharp, testing the air.
“Are you sure about that?” he asked quietly.
“Y-yes, I’ve just been focused on my mop. I didn’t see anyone, I’m sorry. She must be here somewhere, I... maybe she went to the restroom that way.”
“Ivan. Not tonight.” A voice called far away. A familiar voice with an accent, but I couldn’t place it. I was too scared to think.
I blinked, breathing quick and shallow. Was the man just outside the door Ivan Sinclair?
I peeked through the crack in the door. He was standing a few inches away from the janitor, looking down at him. The janitor kept his eyes on the ground, clutching his mop.
“You are sorry,” Ivan said in an intimate, condescending tone. “As sorry as they come.”
That cold sucking feeling of dread made my legs tremble. I crouched down.
Then came the click of his shoes on tile, becoming quieter and quieter, until there was only silence.
The door opened and I jumped back, knocking over a rack of brooms.
"Thank you," I whispered. "Really. Just... thank you."
The janitor nodded, clearly a little shaken too.
“Can I… stay in here a little longer?”
His eyes lingered on mine empathetically, and I leaned forward and pulled the door closed, then fought with the latch on my clutch to get my phone. I needed to call Gabriel.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, is it already over? Don’t you want to stay a bit longer, try to—"
"No," I said too quickly. Then softer, "No. I’m done. Can you pick me up?"
There was a pause.
"What happened?"
"Ivan is here."
"How do you know it was him? Is he still there?"
His tone shifted, but he stayed calm.
"No, he’s gone. I’m fine, I just want to leave."
“Where are you exactly, right now?”
“In a fucking janitor’s closet.”
Another pause. Then, “Good. Stay there. A car will be outside in a minute. Stay on the phone with me until you’re inside.”
I waited silently on the phone with him for what felt longer than a minute.
“Okay. Go outside.”
I followed his instructions, slipped out of the closet, smiled nervously at the janitor, and left the building, saw the sleek black car coming to a stop and didn’t hesitate, dropping the act and running as fast as I could in heels, which wasn’t fast at all.
I slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind me. The car lurched forward, and I sighed in relief.
“I’m in.”
"Tell me what happened," he said.
I rubbed a hand along the side of my goosebumped arm.
“I was ready to leave. The auction wasn’t over, but my piece had already sold, so I tried to slip out. I noticed he was following me, so I ducked into a closet. There was a janitor—”
“Calm down. Breathe.”
I took a shaky breath.
“Ivan came looking for me. He described what I was wearing to the janitor. Said I was his date.”
I heard Gabriel exhale, low and measured. "How do you know it was Ivan? What did he look like?"
I hesitated. "Someone called his name."
Another pause.
“Gabriel?”
“I’m here. He couldn’t have recognized you, or known you would be there. Tonight was just bad chance, but you’re safe. I never would have sent you there if I’d known he would be there.”
“I know,” I said, feeling exhausted.
“I’ll see you soon, Sophia.”
“See you soon.”