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His brows pull together, and he stares up at me as though I’ve just asked him to hand over the Mona Lisa and all its preliminary sketches.
“What?” I snap.
“Ms. Kay, you signed a contract with Gallery Lafayette, and the paintings are now sold. You can’t just take them back.”
The contents of my stomach roil with frustration. I can’t believe I fell for his underhanded practices. He never once mentioned selling my work in a second auction.
My gaze darts around his office, finding sculptures and smaller paintings stacked against the wall but no sign of my huge canvases. He’s a fucking swindler. I glare down at the gilded tea service with steam still rising from the pot, and understand how this asshole can afford such beautiful antiques.
“I told you,” he says. “They’ve already been delivered to the buyer, and before you ask, Gallery Lafayette is not at liberty to divulge their identity.”
Tears burn the backs of my eyes and fury burns my blood. All those months I spent cleaning the police precinct to pay for studio time and materials, all those sleepless nights I sacrificed toiling on my paintings, only for my efforts to be wasted on a scammer.
“I’ll sue,” I say.
Lafayette snorts as though he hears that threat every day. His beady little eyes glimmer beneath the pink sunglasses, eager for my next move.
“Then just give me my money,” I snarl.
He tilts his head. “Did you not read your contract?”
“Fifteen percent commission, right?” I pull out my phone, fire up the calculator app, and talk through the numbers. “You sold five paintings at five hundred each. That’s two and a half grand. Minus fifteen percent is?—”
“Two thousand one hundred and twenty-five,” he drawls, “But your contract states that all artwork sold under ten thousand is also subject to a commission of twenty-five percent.”
I gulp. That amount might cover the rent I owe, but I was really counting on the auction to pay off a few more debts.
“Alright then,” I rasp. “I’ll take cash.”
Lafayette wags a finger. “There’s also a fixed fee of five hundred.”
My jaw drops. “Five… What?”
“Every auction incurs expenses, Ms. Kay. Marketing, staff costs, utilities, refreshments, shipping, etcetera, etcetera. Gallery Lafayette would go broke if we didn’t impose a fixed fee for low-level transactions. It’s all in the contract.”
I glance down at the schedule of payments spread across his desk. The five-hundred-dollar fixed fee didn’t concern me at the time I signed the contract because Lafayette promised me a reserve price of ten thousand.
The legalese was so cleverly worded with so much doublespeak. I could have avoided all this if I’d had the money to hire a specialist contract lawyer.
Before I can form another protest, he adds, “That’s per item.”
Realization kicks me in the gut. I’m beyond screwed.
“You’re telling me I owe you?”
He nods, seeming proud of his invisible loophole. “A twenty-five percent commission on five paintings sold for five hundred dollars per piece, plus the fixed fee of five hundred dollars per item comes to three thousand, one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I’ll take cash.”
The fury simmering in my belly reaches a boiling point. I clench the edges of his desk with so much force that my knuckles turn translucent. How dare this slimy little man smirk at my distress. If he thinks he can make me pay for the dubious privilege of selling my artwork in his gallery, he’s as deluded as he is ugly.
“My boyfriend’s a police detective,” I blurt, my stomach twisting at bringing up my abusive ex. “I can report you for fraud.”
“Is he also incapable of reading and understanding contracts?” Lafayette asks.
Bitterness rises to the back of my throat. Jim wouldn’t just laugh his ass off and side with the smug bastard. He’d lock me in his spare room, then beat me senseless and hold me captive for another year.
I shove that thought aside and focus on the immediate threat.
“Every artist in New Alderney is about to know how you scam the vulnerable,” I say, my voice low. “I’m going to document this on every social media platform until you and your shitty gallery get canceled.”
