Page 53 of Captive Ruin

My exhibition has been publicized for weeks, my artists listed. Serranto knew who to target.

“Jeanne… you’re an amazing, budding artist. Your work deserves an audience.” I pour all I have into those words, straddling the line between passion and desperation. “We can offer you the exposure to get your pieces seen. Why would you cancel?”

“I really wanted to show my pieces with you,” she says miserably. “I was so looking forward to it.”

“You still can! I have two hundred people coming… a journalist from Time Out…”

“Jordan Fletcher?”

“Yes.” I pause, ice lying solid in my stomach. “How did you know?”

“I was told you’d say that.” Her voice hardens. “It’s a lie, isn’t it? He’s not really coming, is he?”

“He is,” I say slowly. “I have his acceptance.”

“That’s not what I heard. I can’t risk putting my work with a gallery that would—” She stops. “I feel betrayed, Amelia. I’m sorry, but I won’t be showing my work with you.”

I straighten my back. Lift my chin. “One question please, before you hang up. Who told you? Was it Steven Serranto?”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Yes.”

“And you believed him.” The words slip out, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement of anguish.

“Of course I did,” she replies. “When someone like that gives advice, who wouldn’t listen? I’m sorry it ended like this, Amelia. I had… hopes. Goodbye.”

I set the phone back in its cradle, rest my elbows on my desk, and my head falls into my hands.

Just like that, everything has gone. Michael Amiento. Jeanne Quek. Jordan Fletcher—who might even still be coming. That would be just Serranto’s style, lying about it to Jeanne and then Fletcher turns up, to report on a canceled exhibition.

The bastard has been thorough, I’ll give him that.

I never dreamed he had such pull. I thought he was a smarmy bastard, more bluster than bite. But to do this? In barely forty-eight hours?

And I only have a weekend and two days to find replacements.

It’s impossible.

My mind spins in spirals, unable to come up with any options. I lean back in my chair, eyes burning. In front of me is a quiet landscape that sat in my parents’ house, until I moved it here. It was my mother’s favorite, my inspiration. The tears come, and I can’t help them. I’ve let my parents down. I’ve squandered my inheritance. God, if I have to sell, I’ll get back a fraction of what I put in. Everything I’ve done will be for nothing.

And Sierra… I won’t be able to keep her on. How will our friendship survive that?

I don’t know how long I sit there, reeling from it all. Then my phone rings, stirring me from my thoughts. I pick it up on reflex.

“Amelia Anderson.”

“What an interesting call I’ve just had from Michael Amiento,” Serranto drawls over the line. “He says you begged him to reconsider.”

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth hurt. At least I didn’t beg Amiento; I might have begged Quek.

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you beg myself,” Serranto continues. “On your knees, maybe.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now that I think about it, begging on her knees and fucking me is more your sister’s thing, isn’t it?” He chuckles. “I’m going to have you both.”

“Goodbye, Serran—”

“If you hang up, your gallery is lost. We both know it.”