Page 18 of The Unfluencer

“Um…” He hesitates, sending worry slithering down my spine. “So, remember last year when Vincent designed the space for that fine-art gallery in Harrington?”

Oh, the quiet, guestlist-only gallery, the Heartery, plagiarizing all of my marketing to fit their “brand”? Why, yes. I think I remember them.

“The one with the rug?” I ask instead, refusing to say that name.

Clive closes his eyes and nods, like somehow I’m supposed to connect the vague dots between his loaded silence and that inane choice to place a gorgeous rug under a boring installation, sparking debate whether it was part of the exhibit.

I’m about to beg, “Please, sir, may I have a crumb of context?” when he finally explains. The supposedly highly coveted, super-rare collection with the unknown artist whose name I assumed was being withheld due to an ironclad NDA? The one I should be prying out of Dr. Brown right now? Turns out, it’s a posthumous collection. The artist’s name has been kept secret because the person is deceased—which, depending on who the artist was, could change everything from the pieces’ value to the prospective buyers.

But it gets better.

According to Vincent—who has a friend of a friend, the not-so-brilliant gallery assistant who ignored advice to forgo the artsy rug—the collection has already been scooped. Horrifyingly, that Harrington gallery already has a meeting scheduled with the estate representative handling the art to finalize the deal.

“Shit.” Panic skitters over my skin.

In my head, I’m already casting this collection as “the one”—my new golden unicorn—when my phone starts buzzing across the glass desktop.

“Do you need to take that?” Clive asks.

I nod, not really seeing him. “Oh—no. I’ll worry about that later. Um, when are they meeting?”

Clive eyes me, seemingly unsure what crime he’s abetting, then shrugs. “Next Wednesday.”

Again, I glance at my phone, calculating.

It’s Tuesday. That gives me—one, two, three—four days until Corinne’s exhibition preview night. And if Dr. Brown’s lecture ends at four, I’ve got about a half-hour…

“Perfect,” I say.

“Uh, dare I ask what you’re about to do?” Clive asks tentatively.

I take the steps two at a time. “I can still make it to meet with Dr. Brown,” I say over my shoulder. “I need all the intel I can get if I’m going to invite that estate rep to the exhibit opening Saturday—and get to him first.”

Chapter Four

Whitney

Cultured Class

Half an hour later, I arrive at Hughes College with two coffees in hand in time to catch the tail end of Dr. Brown’s ancient art history lecture. From her lectern, in her roller-set, bouncy, dark curls à la Fresh Prince Aunt Viv—the Black one—she tosses me a direly deadpan expression, wordlessly confirming the topic is about as dry as I remember, and I’m her oasis.

The corners of my mouth quirk up when she winks at me.

This is her superpower, and every last student in the hall knows it too. There isn’t an empty seat in the house, and that’s to her credit. Dr. Brown’s got a way of commanding respect while staying completely genuine. Effortless, grounded, real. Just down to earth.

“Next week, we move from gods to mortals.” Her raspy voice carries sharp, loud, every bit a thunderous force, before a bright smile stretches her deep burgundy lips. Joy glitters in her eyes as she purrs, “Now, go stand before something beautiful and let it talk back to you.”

A collective wave of laughter and chatter rushes over the lecture hall as they take heed, rising and rushing the door, proudly ready to flirt with statues because she decreed it so.

In five seconds flat, Dr. Brown’s at my side like she can’t get away from this place fast enough, and truthfully, I’m glad. Time is definitely of the essence.

“Riveting lecture?” I stifle a laugh, knowing good and well that this woman—whom I hold in the highest regard—isn’t about to lie for my sake. We’ve been through way too much to uphold perfunctory pretenses. Or lie to one another.

Usually.

“Oh hush, child.” She purses her full lips and gives me a wide-eyed, chastising look as she takes her coffee. One that I know too well. It says I’m absolutely right, she’s just endured professional torture, but I’m dead wrong for broadcasting it with her students in earshot.

Which, fair.