Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Isabella
8 YEARS LATER– PRESENT DAY
“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice withered in humiliation. I lower my head, staring at my feet, and cross my hands in front of me, hiding a formed fist. This is the most humiliating day of my life, and I once peed on myself in elementary school, in front of my crush. Nothing can beat this.
“Find me a better artist by Monday, or else you’re fired.” His stern voice echoes in his office.
I can feel the eyes of my colleagues piercing my back outside the glass door. Everyone can see and hear us, and that’s worse than them hearing rumors about what’s going on right now.
I quickly lift my head to face him as soon as he says the f-word. “But sir—” He sends a chilly glare in my way, and I learn to shut up. I can’t afford to get fired. Not here. Not now. “I will.” I sound like a cat meowing.
“You can leave, now. And don’t even dare face me on Monday if you have nothing to offer.” He doesn’t even look at me as he speaks.
I slightly bow my head before turning on my feet to leave. Fuck him. Fuck this job. And fuck me for tolerating such treatment. I can’t believe this is how I’m spending my mid-twenties. I have everything I could ever wish for, and all it is giving me is headaches.
“Are you okay?” Madison, the art cataloger, meets me right behind the door.
This cannot get any worse. I’ve been working my ass off to climb up the ladder in the art world, especially in this Auction House. Three years of my life in here, and all I’m gifted are spits and insults from that low-life boss of mine.
Maxwell Maurney. One of the greatest auctioneers in the United States. Whatever you put on the table that’s worth selling, he will sell and make you a millionaire. He has multiple houses all over the world, including Maurney’s in France. My workplace. I chose my fate, and I beat myself every day for that. I applied to work with him at Maurney’s and unluckily got accepted.
At first, it was surreal to work with such a prestigious person of influence. He knows all the ins and outs of the business, and a simple recommendation from him is enough to get anyone up that ladder I’m burning calories on. What I didn’t know was that he was a fucking jerk, with nothing but his head up his ass. Privileged fucker, and a rich man with power.
Even with my position in this house, I still get mistreated. And I don’t get why. Not saying anyone else deserves to be treated the same way, but I shouldn’t be.
I’m an Art Auction Specialist in this place. I’m important in every way possible. Without my help, various art collections wouldn’t even be up for sale at Maurney’s. I use my skills to make what others find impossible—possible, and this is how I get paid for it.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not as if it’s the first time, anyway,” I say as I walk with Madison to her desk. We pass by the grey cubicles of wandering eyes and whispers, and it makes me want to bury myself alive.
“You know he’s just moody, right? His wife came in a few minutes ago and gave him an earful because he forgot to pick up his son at school.”
“So, he’s a lousy boss and a terrible father? Twice the charm.”
Madison laughs. We arrive at her desk and find various artworks spread across it. Everywhere I look, there’s a painting from some artist and colorful scrap notes on the computer and on the side of the panels. She’s been working, I see.
At last year’s auction event, we got to sell a substantial amount of work. Instead of being grateful, Maxwell immediately got us back to work, saying it wasn’t enough. How is selling almost nine hundred million dollars’ worth of art in a few hours not enough? Apparently, not for him.
Madison of all people clutched most of the pressure. For weeks, she’s been coming to work with her sandy-light hair in a messy bun, a tight black skirt worn at least three times a week, and a coffee cup stuck on her palm. One would think she’s been assaulted in here, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame them.
“Okay, so I assume you heard him babbling in there. He needs new artists. Which obviously translates to more work.” I rest my elbow on the tall panel of her cubicle. “Please tell me you have someone?” I plea.
She scrambles among the papers, searching for a potential success. Her hands move at the speed of light, and a few seconds later, she pulls out one.
Madison’s job is to research art canvases worth thousands, maybe millions of dollars or euros. If she finds one checking all the boxes, she sends it to me, and I do my job—which is to convince the artist to sell with our Auction House, instead of another. Before that, I partake in the decision of who’s worth running after, and then I go out there to lay my pride down and suck up to that artist. It’s a full-round job I love and hate.
It usually is the easiest part, really. Getting them on board. Most of them are willing to share their work with people who can appreciate them, as well as get a lot of money from it, so that’s good. Some are a little hard to get through, mostly because of their ego, but I still find a way to get them on our side.
“Take a look at this one.” She hands a laminated paper to me. “This artist has been the talk for a while now, but there’s an issue, like always. No one knows the name of this person.”
“An anonymous artist?”
She hums in response.
“Maxwell will love that. Is this the only art piece you have from that person?” I ask, staring at the painting.
I have it on the paper as a picture, but I can still feel its importance. The realistic painting captures a weeping teenage boy filling up the ocean with his tears. Strings of tears cover his face as they drip, and the water is up to his shoulders, ready to drown him. His expression cuts deep as he looks directly at the person staring at the painting, almost as if he’s communicating. Whoever painted this felt every single emotion with every brush, and it’s impressive to look at.
“There’s also this one.” Madison pulls out another painting from the mysterious artist.
“Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you present this yesterday at the meeting?” I hold both papers in my hand.
“I didn’t know if it was okay to, especially since I don’t know much about this artist. It’s my job to fact-check, remember? And this person is impossible to contact.” Her perky eyes widen at me, and I lose to it.
That’s her fighting armor. Those marble, precious eyes. They always put me down in moments like this and I fall to its spell. Sometimes, I wonder how guys either never chase after her or stay for longer than a month. Another mystery I have yet to tick off my list.
“Okay, fine. Leave that up to me, I’ll find whoever made these. Could you send me all their work? Seems like Monday could be a good day, after all.”
I analyze the second painting. Much simpler, but still exhibits the talent this person possesses. There’s no way Maxwell will reject these. They’re exceptional.
I quickly glance at his office, and a smirk pulls on my face. This better be the work that will get me to the top.
Not far from Madison’s cubicle is mine. We’re on the same line, but two others separate us, which doesn’t do much since she always finds her way to chitchat during breaks. I immediately turn on the computer and get to work. The file she sent me spring open, and various shades of color flood my screen. These works are eye candy, and it’s exactly what this house needs. Contemporary, pragmatic, and cunning art.
The first thing I do is search for a name on the internet. Nothing. Absolutely nothing comes up. It’s like a ghost painted all these, and it’s freaky. It’s impossible to be utterly shut off the world, while still being known. This person has achieved just that. Popularity, as well as privacy.
“What’s that?” a voice murmurs behind me, dragging me out of the hole I’ve been digging myself in for the past few hours.
“Oh, Ethan. You scared the crap out of me,” I breathe out, out of relief.
“I didn’t see you at the cafeteria, so I figured you’d be here. What are you doing?” he asks, making himself comfortable as he sits on my desk.
“Being a detective. Madison found a promising artist, and now I have to find that person.” I sigh.
“Can’t you just make a few calls?”
“Not with this one. This one is a ghost.”
He tries to peek at the page I have opened on the computer. It highlights some information I’ve managed to gather so far, and though it’s a short list, it’s mine.
“Don’t even dare.” I stop him in his movements before he gets to take a full look.
Ethan might be one of the few friends I have in this house, but we’re still contenders. He works downstairs with the others and has been doing a good job bringing in collections, but not as good as I do. If he had the chance to snatch this artist up, he will. And I won’t sit and let him have it with his shiny bald head that could hold up to ten figure skaters.
He lifts both his hands like a criminal intercepted by the cops, slowly sliding off my desk. His tucked-in white shirt lifts as he holds that posture.
“Just so you know, I also have an artist ready to knock on Maxwell’s door.” He grins.
“Is that a warning?”
“It’s sharing. Friends share things, such as their feelings, their problems, and their accomplishments.” He emphasizes the last bit as he slowly walks away.
I don’t hesitate as I lift my right middle finger to his face. No need for words. He turns his back to me as he walks off, laughing.
“Back to work,” I whisper to myself.
The hours repeat themselves as my fingers rush on the keyboard, typing and searching for a damn clue of who this person is. The lights slowly dim as time passes by, and my eyes are burning at the bright screen.
I don’t deserve this life.
“When are you leaving?” Madison stuns me as she whispers behind me. What’s with people jumping in on me like this?
“As soon as I get something.”
“You won’t. I’ve dug for this person for days. You’re not going to find anything in a few hours, Isabella.”
“Do you want to bet again?” I resume typing. I fuse different research words to bring up something different. Who is the person behind The Blue Wagon painting?—Owner of The Blue Wagon Painting.—Who painted The Color of Us? And even —A Famous Anonymous painter? Anything one can come up with, I’ve typed it. It’s impossible to find this person, but I can’t admit that to Madison yet.
“How about you go home and continue there? It’s bad enough you’re the first person to clock in every time. It’ll be worse if you were the first to sleep in this building on a Friday.”
I sigh.
“You’re right.”
I get my USB card out of my bag and save all the paintings before logging out of the computer.
“Let’s go,” I say as I get up and link my right arm with hers. We walk in sync as we head to the door.
“This better work,” I think to myself while she passes her card through, allowing us to leave the building.
Her car is parked right across from us, so all she has to do is cross the street. I had parked mine a little further to our right. I can’t believe there isn’t any parking space reserved for workers here. What’s the point in Maxwell being rich, if he can’t provide us that much? Tragic.
“See you on Monday,” I say, after releasing her from the arm cross.
She blows me a kiss. “Don’t break your fingers searching for a person who doesn’t want to be found, okay?” The further she goes, the louder her voice gets.
“No promises.”
Tomorrow, I have to go back to work and present a new artist to Maxwell, and I have nothing to give him. Nothing. I do have paintings and a potential, but no name. This mystery artist is only making me crave an answer the more I find myself in front of a wall.
I’ve been spending my weekend digging like a mole, and all I find are events, tweets, and pictures. I can’t believe I’ve spent two days in bed, blinding my vision with my laptop on my lap. Unbelievable. Just when I’m about to shut everything off and call it a day, my phone rings.
“Hello?” I begin, closing my laptop.
It’s half past ten in the evening, and though I like to work late, it’s been a long week. It’s not as if I’ll find anything anytime soon, anyway.
“Hi, is this Isabella Kirby?” a man’s voice vibrates in my ear.
“It sure is. Who’s this?”
“Ryder Howell, Jasmine’s husband.”
I’ve been contacting fellow friends in the business who might have heard about this person, and almost all of them swore to know just as much as I did. Except for one. My former classmate. She recently got married to a man working at an auction house in Amsterdam, and he miraculously got to handle one of this artist’s paintings.
Based on my research, that auction went pretty well and had an impact on that artist’s life. It was the first for him or her, and technically, what made them big in the industry, so of course, I wasted no time in contacting my friend to get me to her husband. I didn’t expect him to call now, though.
“Sorry for calling this late, but my wife told me you were curious about a certain artist.” His voice shies away as if he’s hesitating.
I sit properly on my bed as I put my laptop aside. “Oh, yeah, Jasmine’s husband. Yes, I’ve been looking for, um, this anonymous artist for a few days now, and I can’t find anything at all. Is there a way you can help me?”
“Yes, in fact, I think I can help. I do have his number, and though I’ve never met him before, I was fortunate enough to have gotten it. You can try to call him, but know that he might not answer.”
“He’s a he?”
I never saw a mention of this person being a man on any platform. That’s basic information I can’t believe I couldn’t find by myself.
“Yes, he is. I worked with him once, and never got the chance to meet him, so…”
That shuts down my chances from a seventy to a ten really quick.
“Wow! Well, thank you very much for calling and for your help. I owe you big time.”
“Oh no, this is nothing at all. A good friend of my wife is also a friend of mine,” he says, and I smile.
“Have a good night, and thank you once again for the phone number. You have no idea how much it helps,” I say before hanging up the phone.
A second later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from him. I get to peek at the artist’s number before another message replaces it on the notification bar, nudging me to press it.
Unknown Number
This is the number. Good luck finding him.
Right above, my eyes fire up to read the number. A quick moment passes, and I’m still staring at it. I should press and call immediately, but something is holding me back.
No, it can’t be.
After some time, I long press the number and decide to text instead. It’s a little late for me to call, and if this is who I think it is, I prefer not to.
Me
Hello sir, hope everything is well with you. I’m an Art Auction Specialist at Maurney’s Auction House in Paris, France. We’re really interested in working with you and displaying some of your art at our upcoming auction event. You’ll find below a link to our website, as well as a way to contact us. My name is Isabella Kirby, and if?—
I type in but then stop. I don’t think adding my name is going to be helpful at all if this is him. Maybe keeping it anonymous is the best chance for him to respond.
Me
Hello sir, hope everything is well with you. I’m an Art Auction Specialist at Maurney’s Auction House in Paris, France. We’re really interested in working with you and displaying some of your art at our upcoming auction event. You’ll find below a link to our website, as well as a way to contact us. Hope to hear from you soon.
Yeah, that’s good. A little vague, but better than a call, at least. I keep my phone close to me as I wait for a response. If he’s from somewhere out of Europe, he’ll be about six to nine hours behind or ahead of my time. There’s no reason he wouldn’t see my message now.
I grip my phone, praying to the heavens for something from him. A ‘no’ can also be an answer, and it’ll be fine. At least, I’ll know if it’s his number, and I can go to an extent to convince him.
“Fuck it, he’s not going to answer,” I murmur to myself, contemplating turning my phone off and going to bed. “Oh!” Three dots appear below, and my excitement takes over. He’s typing.
The dots disappear, then reappear. It does it again three times, and my patience becomes the last thing I’m full of.
Anonymous Artist
Sir? Really, Isabella?
My eyes open wide at my name. I didn’t want to be right. I wished I was seeing things when I saw that number, but it was true. It is him. His number. His art. Is Travis the one I have been searching for over the past few days? The same Travis I left on his knees, begging for me to stay? Travis McGreen. Shit. Shit. Shit.