2. Cassian
CASSIAN
The glass conference table reflects Manhattan like a mirror. My father stands at the head of it, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, tablet in hand, dismantling last quarter's performance with a deadpan expression.
"Revenue's flat. Brand perception is stagnant. We're coasting on legacy, Cassian, and legacy doesn't pay the bills forever."
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. "We hit projections."
"Barely. And projections aren't enough." My dad swipes through another slide. Charts, graphs, consumer sentiment analysis. "Black Lake used to set trends. Now we follow them six months late. That's not who we are."
"So what do you want?"
He looks up. His eyes are the same hazel as mine. A businessman first, a father second. Always has been.
"I want something new. Fresh. A collaboration that reconnects us to culture. Real culture, not whatever focus groups say is trending on social media." He sets the tablet down. "The art world. That's where innovation lives right now. Find it. Bring it into the brand."
I don't react. Years of boardroom training mean my face stays neutral even when I want to tell him this is a waste of time. Art collaborations are risky. Too subjective. Too dependent on personalities that don't care about our earnings.
But my father isn't asking politely.
"Scout the scene," he continues. "Galleries, studios, emerging artists. Find someone who can translate their vision into something we can build a line around. Something that makes people remember why Black Lake matters."
"Timeline?"
"Three months. Present options by end of quarter." He picks up his jacket from the chair. "And Cassian? Don't half-ass this. I'm not interested in safe. I want disruptive."
He leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with fifty floors of Manhattan stretching out through spotless windows.
Disruptive.
I pull out my phone, scroll through the calendar. Tonight's another gala. The Hudson Arts Foundation benefit, black tie, same faces I see at every event. Raylin will be there. She's always there, orbiting my life like she has a right to it.
Raylin Hart. Childhood friend turned persistent shadow. She wants more. Has wanted more since we were sixteen and she kissed me at her parents' summer house in the Hamptons. I didn't kiss back then, and I haven't changed my mind in the twelve years since.
Doesn't stop her from trying, though.
I pocket the phone and walk to the window. The city sprawls below, alive and indifferent. Somewhere down there is what my father wants, an artist who can bridge the gap between what Black Lake was and what it needs to become.
And beyond that, in a place only she knows, is Amara.
The thought arrives uninvited, the way it always does.
A flash of memory: sunlight through oak trees, a college courtyard in spring, her laugh cutting through the noise of a hundred conversations.
Dark skin, curls that caught the light, brown eyes that saw through every glossy surface I'd learned to present to the world.
Amara Campbell.
She left six years ago. No warning, no explanation, just gone. One day we were inseparable, and the next her apartment was empty, her phone disconnected, her friends suddenly unable to meet my eyes when I asked where she went.
I've looked. God knows I've looked. Private investigators, digital forensics, every resource money can buy.
Nothing. She vanished like she never existed, and the only proof I have that she was real is a photograph I keep in my wallet, stolen from her Instagram before she deleted everything, her smile halfway to a laugh, hair wild in the wind.
I pull out my wallet now. The photo's creased at the edges from years of handling. She's wearing a paint-stained shirt, standing in front of a canvas I never got to see finished. Beautiful in a way that still catches me off guard, even in memory.
I should throw it away. Move on. Six years is long enough to accept that someone doesn't want to be found.
But I can't.
The office door opens. My assistant, Jordan, pokes his head in. "Car's ready for tonight. You want the itinerary?"
"Send it to my phone."
"Already done." He hesitates. "Ms. Hart called again. Confirming you'll be there."
Of course she did.
"Thanks, Jordan."
He leaves. I slide the photograph back into my wallet, Amara's face disappearing into leather and shadow.
Tonight. Another gala, another roomful of people who want something from me. Raylin in a dress that costs too much for what it looks like, champagne that tastes like expensive nothing, conversations that circle the same shallow topics until I want to walk out mid-sentence.
But business gets done at these things. Connections get made. If I'm supposed to scout the art world, I might as well start where the money is.
I check my watch. Four hours until I need to be there.
Plenty of time to prepare for a night I already know will feel endless.
The ballroom glitters. Chandeliers, silk, designer gowns that cost more than the art they're here to support. I stand near the bar, scotch in hand, half-listening to a hedge fund manager explain his theory about contemporary art as an investment vehicle.
"It's all about scarcity," he's saying, nursing his bourbon. "Digital work, NFTs, limited editions, that's where the value is. You know NFTs? I own one that looks like a bald monkey."
I nod. Don't tell him he's six months behind the curve, that the NFT bubble already burst and most collectors lost their shirts chasing hype.
Across the room, Raylin spots me. Her dress is red, dramatic, cut down her right leg to draw attention. She waves, starts moving through the crowd.
I finish my scotch.
She arrives in a cloud of expensive perfume, the type that lingers long after she's gone. "Cassian. I was starting to think you weren't coming."
"Got held up."
"Business?" She touches my arm, fingers light against the sleeve of my jacket. "You work too hard."
"Someone has to."
Her smile doesn't falter. It never does. Raylin's practiced at this. The delicate dance of wanting something without saying it outright, of making herself indispensable through proximity and persistence.
"I heard about your father's new initiative," she says. "Art collaborations. It's brilliant."
Word travels fast. "You heard wrong. It's exploratory."
"Still. If you need help navigating the scene, I know people. Curators, gallery owners." Her hand is still on my arm. "We could grab dinner. Talk strategy."
"I'll manage."
Her smile tightens. Just slightly, just enough that I know she's annoyed. "Of course. But the offer stands."
Someone calls her name from across the room. She squeezes my arm once before leaving, heels clicking against marble as she disappears into the crowd.
I exhale.
"Subtle as ever, that one."
I turn. James Malone, Black Lake's VP of Brand Development, appears beside me with two fresh drinks. He hands me one.
"She means well," I say, though I don't believe it.
"She means to marry you." James takes a sip. "Has since high school, near as I can tell."
"Not interested."
"I know. She doesn't." He gestures toward the crowd. "So. Art world immersion. How's it feel?"
"Like drowning in champagne."
He laughs. "Give it time. There are some real talents here tonight. That woman by the Rothko? Elena Freese. Sculptor. Incredible work, awful business sense. And over there is Tony Kim. Photographer. Shot the Vogue cover last month."
I scan the room. Names, faces, accomplishments that blur together. Everyone here is accomplished. Everyone here wants something.
What I need is someone who doesn't.
"Your father's serious about this," James says. "He thinks fashion needs to reconnect with fine art. High-low collaboration, cultural relevance, all that."
"He wants disruptive."
"Then find someone disruptive." James checks his watch. "I've got to make rounds. But Cassian, don't dismiss this just because it's not a traditional business play. Sometimes the best partnerships come from unexpected places."
He leaves. I'm alone again, surrounded by hundreds of people and feeling the choking isolation that comes with knowing none of them matter. The conversations around me are just noise. White noise punctuated by laughter and tired jokes I don't find funny.
My phone chimes with an email notification. I pull it out, expecting something from Jordan or another board member.
It's a newsletter. Arts & Culture Daily, something I subscribed to years ago in a fit of optimism about staying culturally informed and never bothered to unsubscribe from.
Usually I delete these without reading them.
Tonight, though, maybe because I'm bored, maybe because I need a reason to avoid another inane conversation, I open it.
"Sapphire Studios Announces Major Exhibition: 'Displacement & Identity in Contemporary Art.'
Featuring newly announced lead artist Amara Campbell, the exhibition will explore themes of migration, belonging, and cultural fracture through mixed media installations..."
The words blur. My vision tunnels until all I can see is her name, printed there in neat sans-serif font like it's nothing, like it's just another line of text in just another press release.
Amara Campbell.
I read it again. Then a third time, making sure I'm not imagining it, that six years of searching hasn't finally broken something in my brain that makes me see her name where it isn't.
But it's there. Black text on white screen. Real.
Amara Campbell. Lead artist. Sapphire Studios. Exhibition opening in three months.
New York.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The ballroom fades. All the noise and light and empty conversation disappearing into the background static. I stare at the screen until my eyes burn.
Three months.
I pocket the phone and look around the ballroom with new eyes. This isn't a waste of time anymore. This is reconnaissance. Because if Amara's coming back to New York, if she's working with Sapphire Studios, then everything just changed.
I'll find her. Finally, after six years of dead ends and unanswered questions.
And this time, she won't disappear without giving me answers.