Chapter 8 #2
I step back, trying to create distance. A man’s scent can be dangerous. Especially when he suddenly decides to show a hint of sincerity. “Nothing,” I lie, the word falling easily from my lips after years of practice. “Just thinking about tonight and the news about the gallery.”
“I don’t blame you.” He straightens his spine, his professional mask sliding back into place as if our moment of almost-connection was too intimate. “Let me know if I can help, but I plan on mingling, talking with the guests.”
“Being an ambassador?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
The door opens behind us. “It’s about time you arrived.”
I fight the urge to cringe at Darren’s whiny voice.
I give Seymour one final nod before turning with my most professional smile.
The smile wavers slightly when I see Darren’s baby blue suit.
It’s not the suit itself—artists often express themselves through their clothing choices.
It’s the mustache, which gleams with what must be hair product.
“How can I help you feel better about tonight?”
I spend the next thirty minutes listening to Darren’s complaints.
His voice grows increasingly shrill with each demand.
This painting needs to be moved. That spotlight needs to be brighter.
The potted fern should be more to the left.
My fingers twitch with every request as I make adjustments I don’t agree with.
With each minor change, he edges closer to me. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but no—he’s definitely invading my space, one small step at a time. My hand instinctively touches my purse where the mace sits. One wrong move from him, and he’ll learn exactly how I handle unwanted attention.
“I want Penguins Making Love to be in the spotlight.” His voice drops lower on the words “making love,” making my skin crawl.
I move the painting, though I know the title alone will keep people from buying it.
This is part of the job—dealing with difficult artists and their questionable choices.
But when his onion-breath hits my face, I’ve had enough.
I turn to face him directly, recklessness surging through my veins.
“I’ll do anything to make this art show a success. ”
He sniffs, his mustache twitching. “I would hope so.” His gaze travels down my body in what he probably thinks is a subtle way. It’s not. I feel like I need a shower.
“But,”—I step closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper—“if you ever touch me inappropriately again, you’ll regret it.” The mace in my purse feels like a reassuring weight.
Darren steps back, his face losing some of its color.
Before he can respond, Stephen Cantrell appears from around the corner, his timing perfect.
He claps Darren on the back, jolting him forward slightly.
“Nice threads. I want to know more about this one painting.” He guides Darren away, and I release a breath.
Okay, fine, I wasn’t professional. But I hope I don’t have to interact with Darren again tonight.
The event preparation continues smoothly after that.
Arthur arrives with the chocolate-covered strawberries right on schedule.
The table looks perfect—the contrast between the red berries and dark chocolate against the pristine white tablecloth, with strategic splashes of yellow from the roses.
Each room stands ready, the paintings seeming to reach out to potential buyers.
The champagne table near the entrance beckons guests to indulge, hopefully loosening both their inhibitions and their wallets.
The first guests arrive in a steady trickle. Scott and Grace are among the early arrivals, and he wraps me in a brief but warm hug. “We’re here for reinforcement.”
Grace’s smile is genuine as she adds, “We also intend to make a purchase.”
I want to pull them aside, tell them to save their money for another time or just make a small donation, but with Seymour watching the room like a hawk, I doubt he’d approve.
Right behind them come my next two favorite people: Miles and Barrie.
Their fingers are intertwined, and they radiate that newlywed glow that both warms my heart and pinches something deep inside me.
I’ve told myself that love isn’t for me.
I’ve accepted that because—let’s be honest—I can be difficult to love. A bit prickly around the edges.
I take my role as ambassador seriously now, putting Seymour’s advice into practice even though it pains me to admit he might be right. Instead of pushing for sales, I spark conversations about each painting, drawing guests into discussions about technique and meaning.
The evening flows, and I find myself constantly moving—checking champagne levels, ensuring the strawberry supply stays fresh, answering questions about various pieces.
My cheeks ache from smiling, but it’s worth it as paintings begin to sell.
During a quiet moment, I pull Julie aside for a status update.
“How’s it going?” I ask, adjusting a crooked frame on the wall. “Overall?”
“Good, I think.” A knowing smirk plays across her lips. “Though you’re losing in the sales department.”
“I didn’t realize I was in a competition.”
“Oh, you are, whether you know it or not.” She tilts her head toward Seymour, who’s working the room with practiced ease.
He moves from group to group, his charm seemingly effortless.
Each smile, each laugh, each gracious comment draws people in.
Any woman watching would probably fall for this version of him—the polished, charismatic man who appears genuinely interested in every conversation.
But I know better.
This is his alternate reality, a carefully constructed facade. The real Seymour is condescending and rule-obsessed, too scared to show his true self. The kind of man women should avoid at all costs.
Fine, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. But I can’t help how I feel.
I throw myself back into the event with renewed determination. More smiling, more laughing, more thought-provoking questions about the artwork. The atmosphere buzzes with energy as conversations flow and glasses clink.
Halfway through the evening, Diana’s voice cuts through the chatter.
“Penguins Making Love has been sold.” A ripple of applause and curious murmurs spreads through the crowd as people wonder about the buyer’s identity.
“And there’s more—anyone who purchases a painting tonight, this buyer has promised to donate an equal amount to the gallery. ”
Even I join in the applause this time. Fresh glasses of champagne circulate. I’d bet my favorite paintbrush that Seymour orchestrated this matching donation scheme.
The next hour flies by in a blur of conversations and sales.
Eventually, exhaustion catches up with me.
I slip away to the staff room, grabbing a bottle of water.
The quiet feels like a blessing after hours of socializing.
I’m mid-sip when voices drift in from the hallway.
Someone else apparently needed a moment of privacy.
“Yup, that’s right...it might be closing...perfect opportunity...I’ll offer to buy the gallery if it comes to that.”
The water catches in my throat. That sounds like Stephen Cantrell. My first reaction is relief—at least someone cares enough to want to buy the place. But then...
“...and I’ve got a great idea for a restaurant...”
The water bottle crumples slightly in my grip. A restaurant? He’s on the board. He’s supposed to care about art, about preserving this space for the community. The betrayal stings.
A scream pierces the air.
Not the kind of scream you hear when someone spills wine or knocks over an expensive vase. This is primal, terrified. The sound sends ice through my veins.
I drop the water bottle and run toward the main room, my heart pounding against my ribs. As I round the corner, the scene unfolds like a nightmare.
Darren Meade lies sprawled on the polished floor, unmoving. Shards of his champagne glass glitter around him. Someone nearby whispers “heart attack” but something feels wrong.
Scott springs into action, his medical training taking over.
The next hour dissolves into chaos as what started as a promising evening crumbles around us.