Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Mandy
So what am I supposed to call him these days? Todd Stane or Alexander Silvano? Does anyone call him Todd these days?
I have no idea. His mom, maybe.
The art magazines lay scattered across my desk, his face staring up at me from glossy pages. I’ve tried to avoid them, tried not to think about him, but in the art world, he’s everywhere. His success splashed across every surface while my paintings sit in storage, gathering dust.
I flip through another magazine. I research other galleries to find inspiration for popular events that bring in people and money.
And there he is, smiling at me, almost in a mocking way.
Like he’s taunting me on purpose. Like he’s saying, Look at me.
I’m handsome. I’m talented. Don’t you wish you could be me?
Of course, that’s not true that the smirk smeared across magazine pages are for me. He probably doesn’t give me a second thought.
To be fair to myself, I have found some success. My scenic paintings sell steadily enough to keep food on the table. Some artists never get that far. But seeing him with Seymour tonight, sitting there like old friends... My stomach clenches at the memory.
I close the magazine, pushing it away. The sight of him still affects me, even after five years. That familiar mix of anger and hurt.
It was a shock to see him in town. And sitting with Seymour. Are they thick as thieves? Does Seymour know what a loser Todd is—excuse me, Alexander—does he know anything?
Probably not. But if I go by the saying birds of a feather flock together, that tells me to be careful around Seymour. Thank God we set up rules. I need the rules. He might too, but I think I might need them more in the coming months. Be warned that Mandy Farnsworth is on guard.
You might be wondering what happened between me and Todd Stane.
I sink into my chair, the weight of memory pressing down. It’s time you knew the whole story.
FIVE YEARS AGO
I sit at my bedroom vanity, brushing my long, dark blonde hair.
The brush catches slightly on the natural waves.
My reflection shows a young woman on the cusp of something wonderful.
The excitement of selling my first painting still buzzes through me, and I’ve finally found my artistic voice—that elusive style every artist searches for.
The red dress Todd loves hangs perfectly, skimming my curves. He said to dress fancy tonight, mentioned a surprise. My hands tremble slightly as I smooth down the fabric one last time.
A car horn beeps outside. Looking through the window, I see Todd leaning against his car door, a bunch of wildflowers in his hands.
The colors clash beautifully—deep purples against bright yellows, soft pinks next to bold oranges.
Only an artist would choose such a combination.
He’s dressed up too, wearing black slacks and a crisp button-up shirt that makes his strawberry blonde hair seem lighter in the evening sun.
I step outside, and before I reach him, he moves to me and sweeps me up in his arms. The flowers crush between us as he spins me around, his lips finding mine in a sweet kiss.
The scent of fresh flowers mingles with his cologne, and I laugh against his mouth.
He sets me down, but keeps his arms around my waist.
“Let me put these in water,” I say, breathing in their sweet perfume.
He makes a low sound of protest. “I don’t want to let you out of my sight for a second.”
I press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the slight stubble against my lips. “I don’t like to be away from you, either. Not for a second.”
His eyes sparkle with barely contained excitement. After I arrange the flowers in my favorite vase, we head to his car. The engine purrs to life, and we merge onto the road leading out of town.
“So where are we going?” I ask, watching his profile in the fading sunlight.
“Nice try,” he teases, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He’s practically vibrating with energy, like he’s about to burst with whatever secret he’s keeping.
“Whatever you do, don’t look in the back seat.”
Of course, I turn around immediately. Who wouldn’t? His invitation is obvious—he wants me to look.
“Hey!” He laughs, the sound rich and warm.
A bottle of champagne nestles in a bucket of ice in the back seat. My heart skips a beat. Champagne isn’t for ordinary occasions. But I force myself to stay calm. It doesn’t have to mean what I think it might mean.
I rub my damp palms against my dress. We drive for about an hour, talking easily about everything and nothing. That’s what I love about us—the comfortable silences, the way conversation flows naturally. He’s not just my boyfriend; he’s my best friend.
We pull into the parking lot. I recognize the art gallery right away.
It’s a larger one in Vermont, just over the border.
It’s not a renovated New England home, but a newer building, with lots of glass windows and a restaurant next door.
I believe it’s also owned by the gallery.
This area has more wealth and more people willing to spend.
The lot is full, so there must be some kind of event happening.
Todd kills the engine. “Champagne before or after?”
“Both?”
The pop of the cork echoes in the car. He pours the bubbly liquid into two fluted glasses, and I watch the bubbles rise to the surface.
The world shrinks, and it’s just the two of us. There could be marching bands or a circus performing all around us, a big trombone blasting inches away, and it would still just be me and him. He looks at me with such love, his eyes fathomless. Someone should pen some poetry about them.
It’s also the way he smiles at me. He doesn’t smile that way at others. Just at me. Like I’m the only one in the world for him.
He raises his glass. “Time for a toast.”
“Here. Here.” My voice comes out softer than intended.
“I’ll go first.” He clears his throat, his eyes finding mine.
“Here’s to forever.” His voice drops lower, taking on that tone that makes my skin tingle.
“Here’s to endless days of you and me. Here’s to a forever of working side-by-side, painting and creating.
Here’s to a forever of hope, laughter, and love.
Love for each other and love for our art. ”
The words steal my breath. I am speechless. My insides are a geyser of excitement bubbling, rising into my chest. He’s talking about forever. Usually, that means marriage. Maybe it will happen tonight. We hadn’t seriously talked about it, but I can tell he loves me.
Our glasses clink together. The champagne tastes sweet and crisp on my tongue. He leans in for a kiss, and I taste the bubbles on his lips. The moment stretches, perfect and pristine. We could stay here in the car forever, surrounded by possibility.
“Ready to go inside?” He pulls back slightly, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Is there a special artist tonight?” I ask as he carefully tucks away our glasses, promising more celebration later.
He reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a glossy flyer. “One I think you’ll love.” The paper announces the debut of a new talent, Alexander Silvano. The text promises unique vision, ground-breaking style, a modern twist on portraiture.
“Hmm. I haven’t heard of him.” I search the flyer for examples of the work, but find only enthusiastic words. “Alright, let’s go.”
We enter hand in hand, our fingers intertwined. How many galleries have we visited this way? Countless evenings spent studying masterpieces, dreaming of our own futures in art.
Todd has a nervous energy tonight. Will he propose here in the art museum? I squeeze his hand, and he flashes me an excited smile. Someone gathers us together in a room, where a cloth drapes over a painting. Todd leads us to seats in the front.
The gallery owner steps forward. She speaks about discovering a prodigy, about the future of modern art. I scan the faces around us, wondering which one is Alexander Silvano.
“Let’s give a hearty welcome to Alexander Silvano!” Her voice rings out as applause fills the room.
That’s when Todd lets go of my hand and strides to the front. What is he doing? He can’t just go up and make a speech. Then he’s shaking the woman’s hand and something close to a revelation hits me. She’s shaking his hand back. She’s smiling and welcoming him, not calling for security.
Todd turns to face the crowd, and his gaze finds mine.
Todd is Alexander Silvano.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling, but this kind of surprise is more like shock, like dipping into the cold water of the lake.
It’s not pleasant. Maybe I just need time to adjust. Todd and I talk about our art.
We don’t keep secrets from one another. Then I remember I hadn’t told him I’d sold one of my paintings and my dreams to expand.
I guess some successes we don’t share right away.
This entire night was about him sharing this success with me.
It’s not about us or a proposal. None of it was.
He orchestrates a drumroll from the crowd. My hands move automatically, clapping along while my mind struggles to process what’s happening. The evening shifts around me, transforming from intimate celebration to public spectacle.
With a flourish, he whips off the cover to the painting. Everyone oohs and aahs.
“Introducing Phineas T. Barnum,” Todd announces, his voice carrying to every corner.
Every word from his mouth is a knife in my heart. It’s hard to even process what I’m looking at and the emotions ripping through me. There’s too many. I think a smile is frozen on my face. I’m supposed to be happy for him. This was his moment, but it’s not his moment.
He goes onto explain this is just the first of many famous New Englanders in his upcoming line.
I study the painting, my gaze landing on every familiar stroke and curve.
Todd has given Phineas Barnum, the Picasso treatment.
Wide giraffe eyes, a misplaced nose. Each feature almost taking on that of a circus animal.
It’s good. My heart is breaking, the shock hitting me.
The room feels small and grows smaller by the second.
It doesn’t matter what happened in the previous hour or weeks. The champagne, the talk of forever—none of it matters. Something inside me shuts down. It breaks.
Then he’s pulling me up front after someone asks him about his muse. He has the gall to present me to the world as his muse. Everyone applauds, smiling at me like I’m the luckiest woman in the world.
I break away. I stumble, almost tripping down the aisle. I need air. I have to get out.
He jokes to the crowd now eating from his hand, something about too much champagne.
By the time I reach the exit, I’m almost running. I burst outside. Except now it’s not a dream world, it’s an upside-down Halloween world. My reality has been flipped.
I know in that moment nothing will ever be the same.
I vomit into the bushes.
That’s the story of Todd Stane, now known to the world as Alexander Silvano.
He took my concept, my vision of historical figures reimagined through distorted features, and turned it into his trademark.
Now he travels the world, drinking champagne and basking in praise for art that started in my sketchbook.
But it’s not about the money. It never was.
It’s about trust. About believing in someone and having them twist that belief into a weapon.
I remember the night I first showed him my concept.
We sat together, sharing wine and critiques.
He studied my work with careful eyes, offering suggestions.
I kept working, kept refining. I even sold one piece.
If only I’d told him more about my plans. If only I’d shown more excitement, more passion. If only I’d stood up that night in the gallery and exposed him for the thief he is. If only I’d brought my paintings, my proof, to the gallery owner.
If only.
I force myself to remember that night clearly now, though the memory stings. We sat in my studio, our usual evening ritual. Candles flickered softly, casting warm light over our sketchbooks. My hands shook slightly as I turned the pages to show him.
“It’s different,” I said, my voice quiet but hopeful. “I’ve been playing with distorting historical figures, making each feature tell part of their story.”
Todd took his time studying the sketches. He held the pages close, tilted them in the light. His silence stretched until my stomach knotted with uncertainty.
“The proportions need work,” he finally said, tapping one figure’s elongated eye. “And the facial features seem random. There needs to be meaning behind each distortion.”
I pulled the sketchbook back, flipping to more finished pieces. “That’s what I’m working toward. See here? I enlarged Ben Franklin’s eyes to show his vision for the future. And here, I’ve made Paul Revere’s ears prominent because—”
“It’s an interesting concept,” he interrupted, reaching for his wine glass. “But it needs refinement. A lot of refinement.”
I didn’t tell him then about the painting I’d already sold. About the series taking shape in my mind, each historical figure speaking through deliberately warped features. I kept working quietly, believing I had time to perfect it.
I didn’t know he was already planning to take it all.
Now he’s Alexander Silvano, art world darling. His distorted historical figures sell for thousands. Critics praise his “unique vision” and “revolutionary perspective.” Every article mentions his “dramatic debut” at that gallery in Vermont.
None of them know the truth.
I saw him tonight sitting with Seymour Black, laughing easily, probably plotting something new. The thought of them working together makes my skin crawl. First Todd infiltrated my art, and now Seymour’s infiltrating my gallery.
Thank God for rules. For boundaries. For the wisdom that comes from being burned once.
I won’t let either of them take anything else from me.
If only I’d been braver that night at the gallery. If only I’d found my voice instead of running away. If only I’d fought for what was mine.
But “if onlys” don’t change the past.