Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Mandy
The next morning, I stumble into consciousness like a zombie.
Death warmed over—barely. My feet drag across the floor as I make my way to the kitchen, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.
Sleep had been impossible after seeing Todd at the restaurant.
I’d been doing better too, almost proud of myself for not thinking about him, for moving forward with my life.
It was kind of working. Until last night.
The coffee maker gurgles and sputters as it brews.
I slump at the kitchen table, my elbows propped on the worn wooden surface, head heavy in my hands.
The rich aroma of coffee fills the kitchen, but even that can’t fully wake me.
When the coffee finishes, I pour a cup with trembling hands and sit back down, uncertain what to do next, almost paralyzed by the weight of seeing Todd again.
Why is he in town? Why was Seymour talking with him?
The questions circle in my mind like restless birds.
Maybe I should warn Seymour if they’re planning to work together.
After all, I know better than anyone how Todd operates—how he draws people in with those easy smiles and friendly conversations that seem so genuine in the moment.
That’s what kills me the most. Even now, I can’t sort out what was real and what wasn’t.
I’m pretty sure our love wasn’t an act. What I can’t understand is how Todd seems to accept money and create more paintings in my style without showing an ounce of remorse.
He keeps producing work that came from my vision, my concept, without a flicker of guilt.
I wrap my hands around the warm coffee mug, trying to ground myself.
It’s been five years. The question that haunts me: will I ever have another epiphany for an art concept?
Yes, talent matters, but what really counts is developing an idea that grips people, that makes them pause and study the work, that sparks conversation.
Five years. And I’m still doing nature landscapes.
A sigh escapes. I should apologize to Seymour for brushing him off last night at the beach, but I wasn’t in the mood. Not after seeing him with Todd. I didn’t want anyone to witness me in that dark place. Faking normalcy would have been impossible.
But today, I’ll have to fake it.
I’ll go through my day like any other. I’ll smile. I’ll chat. I’ll set up for the event, which actually brings me joy because it requires creativity. I love adding those small touches that transform an ordinary showing into something memorable.
And starting tonight, there’s more pressure. Seymour will be watching. Diana will be there. The other board members usually show up too: Stephen Cantrell and Lilly Smith. Both art enthusiasts. They must all realize the gallery is struggling.
Julie and I arrive at the gallery at the same time. Her blonde hair is woven into a neat French braid, and she’s wearing a floral dress that swishes around her knees as she walks. A smile breaks through my exhaustion at the sight of her.
I catch my reflection in the gallery window. We’re quite the pair. Both of us are usually the artist type, paint-splattered and casual, but tonight we’re dressed like we’re heading to a formal dinner. I smooth down my yellow polka dot sundress.
“Ready for the big night?” Julie’s enthusiasm cuts through the early evening air. I wish I could bottle some of that energy.
“Of course. Tonight is going to be a smashing success.” I try to inject confidence into my voice. Maybe if I say it enough times, it will come true. I’ve heard that’s a thing. The right mindset can actually shift reality. Right now, I’ll try anything.
The gallery keys jangle in my hand as we approach the entrance. I pause mid-step. The door is already unlocked, the handle slightly ajar.
My heart stutters. This isn’t right. I’m always the one who opens up for events.
I press a finger to my lips, catching Julie’s eye. Her expression shifts from confusion to concern as I slowly push the door open. The gallery is dark except for a faint glow from the emergency exit signs.
My fingers instinctively find my small purse where I keep my mace. Living alone has taught me to always be prepared. A dark shape moves in the shadows of the main gallery space.
The element of surprise should work in our favor.
I reach for the light switch, flicking it on in one quick motion.
Light floods the space like a spotlight, illuminating the figure.
Though, I find myself thinking with slight hysteria, if this person wants to steal any of these paintings, they won’t get much for them.
Which reminds me that, in a way, this event is set up for a big fat fail.
Sure, some will buy to support the gallery, and Darren makes sure everyone knows he’s a big donor, but still.
I know immediately who it is. The broad shoulders, the confident stance.
Seymour Black.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out higher than intended, a mix of leftover adrenaline and irritation. But of course he has a key. He’s on the board now. I narrow my eyes, realizing he didn’t believe me when I said I’d arrive thirty minutes before the event starts.
He turns to face us fully, and something in his expression makes me pause. His smile is different than any I’ve seen before—less sharp around the edges, almost genuine.
There’s something else different about him tonight.
The black suit fits him perfectly, and the crisp white shirt creates a striking contrast against the dark fabric.
But it’s more than his clothing. His usually cold eyes have softened, and his stance is less rigid.
Even dressed entirely in black, he’s radiating less “villain” and more “reluctant hero.” Maybe it’s because I know the gallery needs saving, and he might be our only hope.
Maybe it’s because this is the first of three events Diana has given us to prove ourselves.
“Mandy Farnsworth,” he says, checking his watch with deliberate slowness, “I’ve been to enough events and seen enough event directors to know that arriving just before the crowds is not a thing.
” His words should sting, but his tone lacks its usual bite.
“It would have been helpful if you’d told me the truth. ”
Heat creeps up my neck. He’s right, and we both know it.
I swallow down my rising shame. As much as I don’t like this man, as much as I downright despise him, I can’t escape the reality of our situation.
He’s the newest board member, and whether I like it or not, I’ll be spending time with him.
I’ll have to listen and take his advice.
And here’s the real kicker. I’ll have to do it with a good attitude.
“Yes, about that.” I glance around at all that needs to be done.
“Julie, you can start setting up the tables in the back room.” She nods, already moving.
We’ve worked together long enough that she knows exactly what I want—pristine white tablecloths with a single yellow rose in a crystal vase. Simple but elegant.
“Is Arthur dropping off the usual?” she asks, pausing at the doorway.
“He should be here soon.”
“Okay, boss. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“Arthur?” Seymour asks before I can form my apology. His tone is curious rather than accusatory, which throws me off balance. He should be annoyed that I’ve kept so much information from him. I could have shared all this last night.
“He’s the dad of one of my art students. He’s bringing the strawberries dipped in chocolate.”
His eyebrows lift. “An amateur?”
“No, he owns a catering business.” I resist adding that dipping strawberries in chocolate isn’t exactly rocket science.
“How much are you paying?” The question is pure business, his eyes sharp and focused.
“A pittance. He gives us a fantastic deal because he wants to support the gallery. We just pay for the ingredients. Not his time.”
He nods, appearing to process this information carefully.
Now or never. I draw in a deep breath. After yesterday, I don’t have the energy to fight with Seymour all night.
I need at least two good nights’ sleep for that kind of battle.
“I want to apologize for last night at the beach. I was rude, and I should have given you the correct time for tonight, and more details.”
Just so you know, this is rare Mandy Farnsworth territory. Me, apologizing sincerely to someone I despise. It’s like spotting a unicorn in the wild.
Hey, I never claimed to be perfect.
His smile softens even more, and the transformation is startling.
The usual sharp angles of his face smooth out, his eyes lose their calculating edge.
Even his posture changes, becoming less rigid.
I swear it’s not one of his caustic smiles where he’s about to one-up someone.
It’s also not one of his charming smiles, the ones he uses when he’s trying to persuade you. No, this is different.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” He hesitates, his gaze sweeping the gallery space like he’s searching for the right words. Just when I think he’s done, he adds, “Did something happen last night to upset you?”
Panic flutters in my chest. How did he know?
I need to be more careful around him. Of course he can read people.
It’s probably a requirement for success in the boardroom.
I press my lips together as images of Todd flash through my mind.
That night five years ago. How he tried to talk to me the next day, tears streaming down his face.
He thought I’d be happy for him, for us.
Sometimes I wish that instead of shutting down and telling him to never speak to me again, I’d explained exactly what he’d done wrong. But it’s too late now.
“There it is again,” Seymour says, taking a step closer. He towers over me, and the fresh scent of mint washes over me. “What happened?”