14. Art Gallery
Samantha
Alexander is left speechless by my words.
The silence that follows is heavy, laden with unspoken truths. He looks at me as if he’s truly seeing me for the first time.
Yes. I choose him.
Even though, in reality, I’m playing this engagement charade as much for myself as for him.
I think I needed a solid reason to openly stand up to them—to finally free myself from their narrow judgment and unhealthy ambition. Even if I had grown more and more resistant to their remarks, their constant belittling since childhood, I needed a clear breaking point.
Taking a stand to help Alexander… is one.
“Sam…”
His voice is rough, shaken.
“Don’t say anything,” I interrupt gently. “I’m with you in this—until the very end.”
He nods, his throat visibly tight, then looks away toward the window. A few seconds pass. He regains his composure.
“I spoke with the communications team this morning,” he finally says. “The announcement will be made tonight at six. I want you to come stay at the penthouse for the rest of the week, until things calm down.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Sam. Your family might harass you. I know Mara can protect you, but I’d feel better if you stayed with me. I could make sure every day that you’re okay… and that I’m not ruining your life.”
His words tighten my chest. His concern is sincere—it makes me want to give in, and at the same time it awakens my visceral need to stand on my own.
“Listen, let me handle my family,” I reply firmly. “I can’t just leave like that. I have my graduation project to work on. I can’t drop everything.”
He takes a deep breath, as if holding back a sharper reply, then slowly nods.
“All right. But if things get worse, you come to my place. I’ll help you move your painting supplies if needed.”
It’s not an option.
It’s a promise.
*
After lunch, I go back to class. Between the meeting waiting for me at the end of the day—which I haven’t told anyone about—and the diffuse fear of what tonight might bring, my mind struggles to focus. I slip out discreetly before the end and head to my appointment.
I’m jittery as I go down into the metro. A few stations later, I get off and walk toward the Levasseur Gallery.
My palms are sweaty when I push open the glass door.
Inside, the air feels different—calmer, more hushed. A perfectly groomed hostess greets me with a smile.
“Good afternoon. I’m Samantha Chevalier. I have an appointment with Mr. Cédric Levasseur.”
“Perfect. You’re early. He shouldn’t be long. You can wait here.”
She gestures to a low table surrounded by two sleek armchairs. I sit down, slightly intimidated, and let my gaze wander.
The gallery is entirely white—vast, airy, organized over two levels with an elegant mezzanine. Carefully filtered natural light illuminates the space. Sculptures punctuate the room, imposing or minimalist, and the paintings—hung at generous distances from one another—breathe, assert themselves.
The works are remarkable. Almost too remarkable.
I feel small. Illegitimate. As if my canvases couldn’t possibly stand up to such company.
The door opens behind me.
A man in his fifties, silver at the temples, enters the gallery with a confident stride.
“Mr. Levasseur,” the hostess says. “Your appointment has arrived.”
He nods at his assistant, then turns to me with a warm, genuine smile.
“Ms. Chevalier. A pleasure.”
I shake his hand, trying to hide the tremor in my fingers.
“Mr. Levasseur. The honor is mine.”
“Come. Let’s go to my office. We’ll be more comfortable talking there.”
I follow him down a corridor lined with white walls punctuated by contemporary works.
His office mirrors the rest of the gallery: bright, minimalist, and welcoming. Vibrantly colored, decidedly modern pieces cover the walls. Nothing ostentatious. Everything seems designed to put the art—and the artist—first.
He invites me to sit in a leather armchair across from his glass desk.
“I saw the photos you sent,” he begins, taking his seat. “And I must say, your style truly intrigues me. There’s a sensitivity in the way you treat light. An emotion that comes through.”
My heart starts racing.
“Thank you, it’s—”
He raises a hand, stopping me with a smile.
“I’m prepared to take three of your paintings on trial.”
No. That can’t be real. I must be dreaming.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“Ms. Chevalier?”
“I… yes. Yes, sorry. It’s just… thank you.”
He smiles, clearly used to artists’ emotional reactions.
“Just so we’re perfectly clear,” he says, “this is a consignment agreement for a period of three months, not a purchase. We’ll set the prices together, and in the event of a sale, the commission will be split fifty-fifty.
The works remain under your name. They’ll be held on consignment and insured by the gallery.
There will be no exclusivity for now. Let’s first see how the public responds. ”
Three paintings on trial for three months.
It’s an incredible opportunity.
“Thank you… thank you so much,” I murmur, my throat tight.
He smiles indulgently at my barely contained enthusiasm, then slides a contract toward me.
“Take your time to read it. If you agree with the terms, initial each page and sign the last one. You’re welcome to take it with you if you’d like to have it reviewed.”
“No, no. I’ll read it now.”
My hands tremble slightly as I take hold of the document.
I lower my eyes to the paper. The black lines seem to waver—adrenaline, no doubt.
What’s happening now is far more than a simple exhibition.
It’s a door cracking open.
A future within reach.