4. Rosenna
Chapter four
Rosenna
W alking into my office, I thanked Kira by blowing kiss her way as she placed a few contracts on my desk and handed me my morning coffee.
“Yes, of course. Thank you for considering us. I look forward to hearing from you soon,” I said smoothly before hanging up.
I exhaled, rubbing my temples. The morning had been a blur of meetings and client visits, leaving me with a backlog of emails and the suffocating weight of anticipation—because today was Monday : the day we’d hear back from Mr. Garcia’s associates on their decision. I felt like biting my nails, but I couldn’t. Not when I had just gotten them done and didn’t want a fresh manicure to go to waste.
Sitting at my desk, I went over the contracts one by one for the next three hours. Around two PM, Kira walked into my office, and by the look on her face, I could tell something was up.
“Kira, what’s wrong?”
She sighed, defeat already thick in her voice. “I’m sorry, Rose. I really tried to get them to say yes.”
The papers in my hand suddenly felt heavier.
“They said no…?”
“I’m sorry, Rose,” she repeated.
I shook my head. “Kira... you did everything you could have and went above and beyond. We… we can find something else,” I murmured, not even believing my own words.
“And don’t be mad… but all of his associates, even Vincent himself, were in favor, but… ultimately Beckham had the final decision.”
I clenched my hands into fists. Had the man focused on anything… anything but me , he would see how much potential this place has and how he could gain so much profit and exposure.
I felt utterly defeated in that moment, wanting to reminisce on what could’ve been—however, Kira was still bouncing up and down as if she had something else to say, distracting me from giving into my rumination.
“Spit it out, Kira,” I muttered.
She pulled out a small card.
“When Vincent’s assistant told me Beckham refused, he also told me to give you his personal number.” She placed it on my desk.
I looked at it in confusion before I looked over at her. “And what am I supposed to do? Call him and beg for him to accept the deal?”
Kira placed both of her hands on my desk as she stared me down. “ Yes . Because if you don’t, I will . He has the potential to bring in more than a million dollars’ worth of profit simply by standing there. We need to be on his good side. Otherwise, Mr. Garcia may not give any more opportunities.”
“First of all, you’re speculating what may happen, and second, we don’t need handouts, Kira.”
She rolled her eyes. “And you’re avoiding reality. Of course we don’t need them, but if you don’t want to spend the next ten years running yourself into the ground trying to pay these loans back, then we need and we take any handout we can get. And a handout from the troubled billionaire artist seems like a rather tempting one.”
Glaring down at the card, I sighed as I opened my planner. “I’ll think about it.”
She huffed but backed off. “Do more than think about it.”
The morning passed in a fog of stress. We really needed this—needed him. And as the hours went by, and the business card sat there in my eyeline, staring at me almost as intensely as Beckham had in our meeting, my hand began to itch. I didn’t want to pick up the phone and call him… but the urge built and built, until finally—I snatched it up and dialed.
He picked up on the first ring.
“ Rosenna.”
I inhaled sharply. His voice was lower than I expected, smooth and rich with something unreadable.
My thighs clenched.
“Hello, Beckham… I was returning your request to give you a call. It seems as though you decided against doing business with us,” I said, almost accusingly.
“That ’ s simply because I would not be getting much in return on my investment.”
I furrowed my eyebrows. “Was it the price that you were unsatisfied with? Or the projected earnings?”
“The costs, profits, and exposure are not… really forms of currency for me within this… transaction.”
I frowned. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I don’t need any more money, the cost of the space is just a drop in the bucket, and I don ’ t really care to share my artistry with the world.”
My frown deepened. “Then what is it exactly then that you would want in return?”
There was a heavy pause.
“ You.”
His answer didn’t register at first. I thought I had misheard. I almost couldn’t believe he said it as I blinked, almost dumbfounded.
“I-I’m sorry?” I whispered.
“The only thing I would want in return is you. I want to paint a portrait of you.”
I swallowed hard, my hand gripping the edge of my desk
“Beckham... I—no, this is highly unprofessional. One of my clients painting a portrait of me? I-I am a married woman,” I said, almost out of breath as my face began heating up.
“And so it appears that you are…” His tone held no judgment or recognition. It felt like… amusement. Like he knew something I didn’t. “If you let me paint you, I will do what you ask of me and even more. You’re not too desperate for my help at the moment, but you will be soon. I would just rather have a form of return that I am pleased with.”
Painting me would be a form of payment? I could barely wrap my head around his words, let alone think rationally about this conversation as my mind was moving a hundred miles an hour.
“Why?” I asked softly.
“…Because I want to understand you, and the only way I can is through my artwork.”
For some reason, I felt as though he was only telling the partial truth of the matter.
I sighed. It had been a wonderful compliment, but this wasn’t professional. I had no choice but to do the right thing.
“I’m sure it’s rather obvious I will have to politely decline your offer, Mr. Garcia.”
This current conversation was only confirmation that he was utterly insane. In addition to the fact that he made me feel uncomfortable at times under his gaze, he seemed overall to be a rather unhinged man.
However, there was a part of me… a not-so-very-good part… that wanted to take that risk and finally prove to Gavin that I could do this on my own. Beckham was right. At this moment, we were stable, but in the next month or so… I didn’t know where we’d be. Despite every warning in my head, the truth was: I was desperate.
He hummed before speaking into the phone rather calmly, his voice holding only a tinge of anger. “Think long and hard about this decision, Rosenna. Because once you decline the offer, it’s no longer on the table and I am not giving you another chance.” He didn’t seem truthful… for a second, it sounded like he was pleading; nonetheless, he made me rethink everything. A war raged in my chest.
I thought of Gavin, of his neglect, his dismissal, his indifference, our recent fights, my debt, my career… absolutely everything came at me in a flash.
My heart raced as I glanced over to my shut office door.
“O-one portrait,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
“That’s all I want, Rose,” he said, sounding very sensual, and I gulped softly as I rubbed the back of my neck.
“I-I guess I c-could.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “Good... Now, about telling your husband. Let ’ s hold off on that.”
I bit my lip cautiously. “Why?”
“So he doesn ’ t make you want to change your mind… For now, it ’ ll just be between us.”
“I… Okay,” I said softly.
“I’ll send you all of the details of the date, time, and location soon.”
“What will I have to wear?” I asked, and he chuckled, the dark, almost teasing undertone making my thighs clench once more.
Dark amusement laced every syllable of his words when he finally responded.
“Dress comfortably, my little flower… It ’ s not like it ’ ll matter too much anyway. ”
The line went dead. I pulled the phone from my ear, staring at the screen. My lungs squeezed, my pulse was erratic.
Was I really going to do this?
Leaning back in my chair, I breathed in deeply as my heart raced in my chest, my thoughts attempting to calm me.
You could always decline. It’s not like he’s forcing you or anything. He simply persuaded you to accept the offer, just like you would any of your clients. You can still back out.
This is strictly business.
I’d arrived home about two hours ago and found myself cooking dinner as I gave Myrtle the night off. Hearing the front door close, I listened as Gavin entered the kitchen slowly. I decided not to say anything as I just wanted to eat dinner and go to bed, however, I felt his hands slowly rest on my hips.
“Rosenna... I’m sorry.”
I continued mixing the batter.
“For?” I asked, because I wanted to hear him say it.
He sighed reluctantly. “Making you feel less than and undermining your accomplishments.”
I nodded, somewhat pleased with his answer and knowing it was the best I was going to get.
“Am I forgiven?” he murmured.
I sighed as he placed his chin on my shoulder. “Possibly.”
He placed a soft kiss on my cheek, somewhat satisfied with my answer too. And now, we were back to normal. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t spent days tearing me down. Like I hadn’t those same days crying and peeling myself off the floor.
It was a perfect cycle.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Fettuccine alfredo with homemade garlic bread.”
Gavin rubbed his hand over my waist while he hummed in approval. Rocking me in his hold for a few moments, he paused for a moment and I waited to hear what was on his mind.
“I want you to consider something, but don’t think I’m saying it’s what you absolutely should do.” I could already feel my shoulders tensing. “What do you think about selling your museums?”
I stared at the sauce, slowly thickening, bubbling, my fingers tightening against the spoon. I didn’t want to go back to fighting this early.
“I don’t know, Gavin. I worked really hard for them, you know.”
He nodded as he gradually turned me around and placed his hand on the side of my face.
“I know. That’s why it’s only a suggestion. Nothing final. I…just don’t want this to keep coming between us.” He placed a kiss on my forehead.
I remained silent. He probably expected me to nod and whisper “okay,” the way I had done a thousand times before.
His voice was so gentle, so reasonable. And somehow it made me feel like this fight, like many others, were all because of me.
“I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll join you in about fifteen minutes.”
I nodded as he left to go upstairs and I finally let my shoulder sag. I knew it was too good to be true.
Gavin doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t know how to. And the only reason he ever tried was to soften the next blow.
His apologies weren’t for me. They were for him: a buffer, a shield—a way to convince himself he wasn’t as bad as he really was.
My phone buzzed.
I looked down to see a message, one that made my anticipation spike and my knees buckle as my fingers trembled, my breath suddenly too loud in the silence of the kitchen.
Beckham
Looking forward to our session together, my little flower.