Chapter 11 Lia
LIA
PRESENT DAY…
Iadjust the lighting on our newest exhibition for the third time, stepping back to assess the effect. The interplay of shadow and light transforms the sculpture from merely interesting to captivating. This is what I love about curating—those small adjustments that make all the difference.
“Ms. Morgan?”
I turn to find my assistant, Paige, standing in the doorway of the gallery's main exhibition space. “There's someone here to see you.”
“Do they have an appointment?” I check my watch. It's nearly five, and I've been looking forward to reviewing submissions for our Emerging Artists Showcase all day.
“No, but he says it's important. He came all the way from Ravenwood Hollow.”
My hometown. The place I've visited a handful of times in fifteen years, either to visit my parents or for my high-school friends' milestones. Thankfully, my parents moved down to Florida six years ago, and I visit them more often there.
“Who is it?”
“Elliot Chambers.”
I freeze, the name instantly familiar even though we've never met. “Elliot Chambers is here? Now?”
Elliot Chambers—the art dealer whose reputation precedes him across the East Coast. His galleries in Ravenwood showcase artists who regularly become stars of the art world. I've followed his career from afar, admiring his eye for talent and his business acumen.
But why would he come to see me unannounced?
“Show him in,” I say, smoothing my pencil skirt and tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Paige nods and disappears. I quickly survey the gallery, grateful that today's space looks immaculate. The current exhibition, featuring contemporary minimalism, has been well-received, with our sales numbers exceeding projections.
When Elliot Chambers walks in, he moves with the quiet confidence of someone who knows his value in the art world. Tall, distinguished, with dirty blonde hair and perfectly tailored clothing—he looks exactly like the photos I've seen in Art Monthly.
“Ms. Morgan.” He extends his hand. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I apologize for dropping in without warning.”
His handshake is firm, his smile genuine but measured.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Chambers. Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours. Columbia's rising star curator. Your work with emerging artists has caught attention in circles that matter.” He glances around the gallery, his gaze appraising. “I won't waste your time. I've come with a proposition I believe might interest you.”
“I'm listening.” I lean against the edge of my desk, arms crossed. Although I'm curious, I ensure that I maintain my composure.
Elliot walks slowly around the gallery, his gaze lingering on a particularly striking minimalist sculpture.
“I'm opening a new gallery in Ravenwood Hollow,” he says, turning back to face me. “Not an extension of my current spaces—something entirely different. A blank canvas, if you will.”
My heart skips. Ravenwood. The place I've spent fifteen years avoiding.
“I need someone to run it,” he continues, his eyes steady on mine. “Someone with vision, with connections in the art world, and with a proven track record of discovering talent.”
“There are many qualified curators,” I say carefully.
“None with your particular eye. Your last three exhibitions have been revolutionary in their approach to emerging artists. You have a talent for spotting genius before others recognize it.” He steps closer.
“I'm offering you complete creative control—the theme, the artists, the layout, everything. Your vision, without interference.”
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. “Complete control?”
“Absolute. I provide the space and the funding. You provide the vision.”
“And the catch?”
Elliot smiles, a flash of something calculating in his eyes. “The catch, Ms. Morgan, is that you'd have to return to Ravenwood.”
I swallow hard. “I left Ravenwood for a reason.”
“We all have pasts we've run from,” he says smoothly. “But perhaps it’s time to stop running.”
“The salary—”
“Will be double your current compensation.” He names a figure that makes me blink. “Plus performance bonuses based on sales.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. That kind of money would pay off my student loans within a year. It would mean financial freedom I hadn't anticipated for another decade.
“Why me?” I finally ask. “Why not a local curator?”
“Because Ravenwood needs fresh blood, Ms. Morgan. And you need a challenge worthy of your talents.”
I take a deep breath, turning away from Elliot to look out the gallery window. The biggest issue with Ravenwood isn't the small-town mentality or the lack of culture; it's the lack of diversity.
It's Vane Blackwood.
The man I fled from fifteen years ago has only grown in power since then.
According to Megan's regular updates—which I pretend not to care about—the Blackwood Brothers practically own Ravenwood now.
Xavier runs the legitimate businesses, Landon handles politics, Knox manages their nightclub empire, and Vane. .. Vane handles problems.
Whatever that means.
I've blocked him on every platform for years, but curiosity got the better of me last month.
One innocent search turned into an hour-long deep dive through public photos.
The tall and athletic boy from high school has transformed into something else entirely—a beast of a man with intricate tattoos crawling up his forearms, disappearing beneath fitted shirts that barely contain the muscles beneath.
His jawline, always sharp, now sports a permanent stubble that would feel incredible against my thighs as he—
No. Absolutely not. I refuse to go there.
“Ms. Morgan?” Elliot's voice pulls me back to reality. “I understand your hesitation.”
“It's complicated,” I reply. “I left Ravenwood for good reasons.”
Elliot studies me. “Most young talents leave small towns. What matters is that you've built something remarkable since then.”
I cross my arms, buying time to frame an answer that doesn't involve green eyes and possessive hands. “I've spent fifteen years establishing myself in New York. My professional network is here. My life is here.”
“Networks extend. Lives evolve.” His tone remains neutral, but I detect a hint of amusement. “The art world is smaller than people think.”
I gesture around the gallery. “I've worked hard for this position. Starting over in Ravenwood means rebuilding everything I've accomplished.”
“Not starting over. Expanding.” Elliot moves toward the window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. “Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Morgan. You wouldn't be returning as the girl who left. You'd be returning as the woman who conquered New York.”
The distinction matters more than he realizes. Still, the thought of walking those familiar streets again, knowing who controls them now...
“I have... history there that I've deliberately left behind.” I choose my words carefully. “Small towns have long memories.”
“Ah.” Elliot nods as though he understands, though he couldn't possibly. “Personal entanglements can be challenging. But I assure you, the professional opportunity outweighs any... awkward reunions.”
If only he knew how much more than awkward it would be.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Chambers. Truly. But returning to Ravenwood isn't as simple as accepting a job offer.”
“Few worthwhile things are simple, Ms. Morgan.”
Elliot tilts his head, studying my expression. “I sense your hesitation runs deeper than professional concerns.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a small leather notebook. “Perhaps we can find a more persuasive arrangement.”
He writes something down, tears out the page, and slides it across my desk.
When I look at the number, I actually gasp. It's not just double my current salary anymore—it's nearly triple my current salary.
“That's...” I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “That's an extremely generous offer.”
“I don't believe in half measures, Ms. Morgan. When I find talent worth investing in, I ensure there are no financial barriers to acquiring it.”
I stare at the figure again, calculating its significance. Student loans gone within months, not years. A substantial investment portfolio. Financial security that I never imagined possible at thirty-three.
“With the performance bonuses,” Elliot adds, “you could potentially earn even more.”
I take a deep breath. Every practical part of me knows this opportunity is too good to refuse, regardless of what—or who—waits in Ravenwood.
“I accept,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “But I'll need time to transition.”
Elliot's smile broadens. “Excellent decision.”
“When would you want me to start?” I ask, already mentally cataloging everything I'll need to arrange.
“How soon can you join us? The space is ready, but the opening exhibition will require your full attention.”
“I need to give my current gallery at least two weeks' notice. I owe them that much professional courtesy.” I run a hand through my hair. “And I'll need to find somewhere to live in Ravenwood.”
“Actually,” Elliot says with a knowing smile, “I believe I can help with the housing situation as well.”
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow, curious.
He nods, reaching for his phone. “One of my business associates recently completed a luxury residential building in downtown Ravenwood. Very exclusive, only six units in the entire building.” He scrolls through something, then turns the screen toward me.
“The penthouse just became available last week.”
I take the phone from him, my eyes widening at the images. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking what appears to be a completely transformed Ravenwood skyline. Open-concept kitchen with marble countertops. Hardwood floors throughout. A master bathroom that looks like it belongs in a five-star hotel.
“This is...” I swallow, trying not to sound too impressed. “This is in Ravenwood?”
“The town has changed considerably, Ms. Morgan.” Elliot looks pleased by my reaction. “The Blackwood family has invested heavily in development.”
The mention of that name sends a chill through me, but the apartment... I can't deny it's stunning.
“What's the rent on something like this?” I ask, already assuming it's out of my price range, even with the substantial salary increase.
Elliot names a figure that makes me blink in surprise.
“That's... That's less than what I'm paying for my one-bedroom in Chelsea.”
“Property values in Ravenwood will never reach Manhattan levels,” he says with a slight smirk. “Though they're certainly heading upward.”
A penthouse. In Ravenwood. For less than my cramped New York apartment. The practical side of me can't ignore the financial advantages, regardless of the complications that might come with returning.
“I'll take it,” I say decisively. “If it's available immediately, that is.”
“Excellent,” Elliot replies, taking his phone back.
“I'll have my assistant forward the lease agreement to your email this afternoon.” Elliot pockets his phone.
“Give your notice here and we'll have everything ready for you to start working on the opening of the new gallery as soon as you're able to join us.”
His smile is confident, as though he never doubted my acceptance. Perhaps he knew the financial incentive would outweigh any hesitation I might have about returning to Ravenwood.
“I'll do that first thing tomorrow morning,” I reply, trying to match his professional tone despite the riot of emotions swirling inside me.
“Perfect.” Elliot extends his hand again, and I take it. His grip is firm, sealing our agreement with the finality of a contract. “Welcome to Chambers Gallery, Ms. Morgan. I look forward to seeing what you create with us.”
With a final nod, he turns and walks out of the gallery, his footsteps echoing against the polished concrete floor until the front door closes behind him.
I sink into my chair, staring at the empty space where he stood. What have I done?
Just like that, I'm heading back to Ravenwood.
Back to the town I fled fifteen years ago.
Back to where Vane Blackwood is—the man who took my virginity, who marked me in ways I've never been able to erase.
The man I ran from without a word, boarding that Greyhound bus with tears streaming down my face, terrified of what I'd felt in his arms.
Fifteen years of carefully constructed distance, of deliberately avoiding any connection to my hometown beyond the most necessary family visits, and for my friend's wedding, all undone by a single conversation and a number written on a slip of paper.
I pick up the salary offer still sitting on my desk, running my fingers over the ink. Is any amount of money worth facing Vane again? Worth the risk of him discovering I've returned?
The rational part of my brain argues that Ravenwood is bigger now. Perhaps I can avoid him entirely. Perhaps he's forgotten me, moved on.
But deep down, I know better. Men like Vane Blackwood don't forget.