Page 16 of The Unfluencer

“Now, I know good and well you didn’t drag me up those stairs, fighting for my life, to see⁠—”

“The golden unicorn?” I supply, voice radiating Morgan Freeman-worthy warmth and wisdom. As in, the magical wonder that I’ve dedicated a gazillion woman hours trying, and failing, to curate through artist development, elevated branding, and market positioning. “The one” I never thought I’d find.

He blinks impatiently.

I frame the painting with my hands, helping him see the vision. And, hopefully, forget about the minor detail that it’s not a virile godsend of a man here to rescue me from romantic solitude.

“Look at the use of color,” I reason. “The Masonite. Oil and acrylic. The narrative perspective. Just rich, raw talent. And the artist is a complete unknown.” I gasp. “Chile, I could cry right now.”

Clive looks from me to the painting, his expression about as dire as the dating pool as he pulls in a long breath through his nose, then sighs.

“I’m hard side-eyeing you for not taking your Axis search seriously.”

Yes!

“I did,” I say eagerly, grinning like a fool. “I swiped for a good twenty—” I rethink the lie when he gives me a dare you to keep lying to me look. “Okay, fine. Ten minutes. And there were maybe one or two decent ones.”

Clive purses his lips. “Which ones?”

“Ugh. I starred them for later. Their profiles were more of the same ‘my black card’ this, ‘I’m an entrepreneur’ that. Nothing of real substance. But I’ll go out, enjoy their company⁠—”

“Among other things, hopefully,” he adds.

“Definitely.” I let out an exhausted sigh. “Yes, I’ll have a delightful time. Everyone will leave with happy endings. Now…” I trail off, lifting the monitor.

But the man is stubborn.

“So, after your little run-in at the country club, since you didn’t find Warner Easton in the swipes, you’re ready to give up.” He tuts, veering into left field, and… I can’t.

One New Year’s Eve I said I might be attracted to that man—before I influenced the universe, and he erased all traces of his late wife—and now Clive and my divas won’t let me forget it.

“Yeah, definitely not searching for Warner.”

He hard side-eyes me again.

“They need to let that fine-ass, sexy-ass, gorgeous-ass, tortured, grieving, virile tech billionaire live his life.” He sighs, dreamily, like he’s still seeing visions of Warner Easton slowly winding through his thick head.

“I’m telling Vincent on you,” I tease.

“My baby knows me.” Clive rolls his eyes, playfully. “Anyway, hopefully Daddy Easton will get back out there this year, so he can come rescue your sad, sorry, one-date-wonder love life.”

I’m shaking my head, smiling. “Sir, I don’t want that man, so end of that discussion.” I lift the monitor again, dramatically. “But if, by chance, you’d like to discuss my actual resolutions, like the fact that it’s not even February yet, and I’ve already deep-cleaned my house, checked off most of my doctor’s appointments, nabbed an Ascension nod, started working out⁠—”

“Where?” He looks me up and down. “Your living room yoga? Or did you finally take that unhinged Edge of Adventure class?”

“I did indeed. And since you asked, it’s been amazing. My knife-throwing accuracy hovers around ninety-five percent, so watch out.” I give him a quick bob and weave. “I’ve also restocked my puzzles and wine⁠—”

“And that vacation that’s been on the back burner for the last couple years?” Clive cuts me off, his expression every bit as judgmental as he means it to be. “You’ve booked that, right? At least put Google alerts on flights to somebody’s island?”

He raises a defiant eyebrow, silently judging my work-life balance.

Or lack thereof.

I don’t even bother answering because he knows I’m on a mission with this gallery. I’m trying to curate real artists who’ll outlive me. Not guestlist shakedown artistes. Long story short, determined gallerist seeks Ascension Award and buzzworthy artist and/or collection so absurdly sensational, the whole operation is catapulted straight into the big leagues. At the rate I’ve been working this past year, tirelessly, tunnel-visioned, without results, the closest I’ve gotten to booking a tropical adventure is watching The Lost City for the umpteenth time.

Short story long?

Honestly, I didn’t think it would ever happen.