Chapter 116 The Return #2
And now, the landlord of the Brooklyn warehouse had made it clear that her exclusive hold was expiring. The coveted lease was going to be handed over to a commercial developer next week.
Teresa felt a familiar, suffocating knot of pure frustration tighten violently in her chest. She had been so incredibly close to breaking through.
The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoing up the old industrial stairwell pulled her sharply from her thoughts. A moment later, Celina Quinn Mason appeared in the open doorway, balancing two artisanal coffee cups while wearing an intensely concerned expression.
"You're still in your smock," Celina said, stepping over a stray crate of oil tubes as she entered the studio. "I texted you three hours ago, Teresa."
"I was painting," Teresa replied with a faint, sheepish sigh, accepting the hot coffee gratefully. "I completely lost track of time."
Celina’s gaze drifted over to the massive canvas, her eyes widening in immediate awe. "Teresa... oh my God. This is absolutely stunning."
"It's not enough," Teresa murmured, her voice sounding small in the vast room.
"What on earth do you mean it's not enough?" Celina demanded, turning to face her. "Look at this piece. It’s breathtaking. You are one of the most incredibly talented people I know. Anyone with a pulse can see that."
"Talent doesn't pay a commercial security deposit, Celina," Teresa said heavily, sinking down onto a paint-splattered wooden stool near her easel. "The landlord called this morning. The warehouse lease is going to a retail developer next week. I am officially out of options."
Celina set the coffee cups down on a clean corner of a desk and crossed her arms, her jaw setting into that fierce, protective look Teresa knew all too well. "Then we create a new option. There has to be an angel investor somewhere in Manhattan who is willing to fund this vision."
"I’ve exhausted the list," Teresa said, a deep, systemic exhaustion finally creeping into her voice. "Every venture capitalist, every bank, every elite art foundation. They all look at my lack of a corporate safety net and say the exact same thing. I’m a liability."
"You are a visionary," Celina corrected fiercely. "And anyone who can't see the return on investing in you is a complete idiot."
Despite the crushing weight on her shoulders, Teresa felt a genuine smile tug at the corner of her lips. "You're my best friend. You're entirely biased."
"I am an excellent judge of character, and I am right," Celina countered.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, watching Teresa closely before adding carefully, "What about... what about just letting me talk to Justin? Mason Industries has a massive philanthropic and alternative investment wing. He could - "
"No," Teresa cut her off instantly, her posture straightening. "Absolutely not. I am not allowing your husband to finance my career, Celina. That is a boundary I will not cross. It’s not fair to your marriage, and it’s certainly not fair to him."
"He wouldn't blink at the numbers, Teresa - "
"But I would," Teresa said firmly, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.
"I need to do this on my own merits. I need to prove to myself, and to the industry, that I can build a legacy without relying on a billionaire's handouts or family connections. If I don't build it myself, it isn't truly mine."
Celina let out a long, defeated sigh, but she didn't push any further. She had known Teresa long enough to recognize when her best friend’s stubborn pride was set in stone.
"Fine," Celina said, stepping closer to squeeze her shoulder. "But you are not giving up on this dream. We will find a way."
Teresa wanted to believe her. But as her gaze swept across her chaotic studio - at the stacks of canvases representing years of blood, sweat, and tears, and at the dream of her gallery slipping rapidly through her fingers - she wasn't sure how much fight she had left to give.
"Your showcase is tonight," Celina reminded her gently, breaking the heavy silence. "At the Hartley Gallery. You need to get cleaned up and dressed."
Teresa blinked, a wave of panic hitting her. She had almost entirely forgotten.
The elite Hartley Gallery had agreed to host a small, exclusive one-night showcase of her latest collection - a rare opportunity to get her paintings directly in front of Manhattan's wealthiest collectors and buyers.
It wasn't the independent, free-thinking gallery space she desperately wanted to build, but it was a foot in the door.
"I honestly don't know if I have the energy to put on a fake smile and pitch myself to wealthy strangers tonight," Teresa admitted, staring down at her paint-stained fingers.
"You are going," Celina ordered, her tone brooking absolutely no argument. "You have sacrificed too much and worked too hard to skip this night. Now, go get changed. Who knows? Maybe tonight will be the night that changes everything."
Teresa highly doubted it.
But she offered a small nod anyway, draining the last of her coffee and stepping toward the sink to clean her brushes. Maybe Celina was right. Maybe tonight would be different.
Or maybe it would just be another glittering, brutal reminder of exactly how far she still had to climb.